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LIBRARY OF THE 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
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UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 





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THE OPTIMIST 


By 
E. M. DELAFIELD 


Humsua. A Stupy 1n EpucaTion 
Tas Heer or AcuILLES 


TENSION 


THE 
OPTIMIST 


BY 


EK. M. DELAFIELD 


Pew Work 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1922 


All rights reserved 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


COPYRIGHTED, 1922, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 





Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922. 


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TEE OE OT POT Lt 


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AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF 
THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN, 


Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2021 with funding from 
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T 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 
(1) 


THE ship swung slowly away from the side of the 
wharf. Several people on board then said, “Well, 
we're off at last!” to several other people who had only 
been thinking of saying it. 

Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea- 
voyage taken by himself at an early age. Far more 
clearly he remembered his arrival at St. Gwenllian. 

It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he 
was of the necessity for resuming a connection that 
had almost insensibly lapsed for several years. 

He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, 
visualizing himself, a disconsolate, shivering morsel, 
being taken away from Papa and Mamma at the very 
station itself, and put into an open pony-cart beside 
Miss Lucilla Morchard. 

The conversation between them, as far as he could 
recollect it, had run upon strangely categorical lines. 

“Who are you?” 

“Tm Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me 
Lucilla.”’ 

“How old are you?” 

“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up per- 
sons their age.” 

“Oh, are you a grown-up person?” 


7 


8 THE OPTIMIST 


“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look 
after the house and the children, and now I’m going 
to look after you as well.”’ 

Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this. 

“How many children are there?” 

“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.” 

“What are the names of the other ones?” 

“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora 
are sometimes called Val and Flossie.” 

He had discovered afterwards that they were sel- 
dom called anything else, except by their father. 

“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little 
carriage too?” 

“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They 
will come in the brougham, later on.” 

“They won’t go back to India without saying good- 
bye first, will they?” he asked wistfully. 

He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma 
were going back to India and leaving him at St. 
Gwenllian. 

“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said 
Lucilla seriously. 

Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be 
relied upon. Very few grown-up persons gave him 
that feeling. 

He remembered extraordinarily little about the house 
at St. Gwenllian. It was large, and cold, and there 
were a good many pictures on the walls, but the only 
two rooms of which he retained a mental photograph 
were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library. 

He saw the latter room first. 

Lucilla had taken him there at once. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 9 


He remembered the books against the wall—num- 
bers and numbers of books—and the big black writing 
table, with a small bowl of violets next to a pile of 
papers, and above the writing table a finely-carved 
ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a 
long plaque of pale-green velvet. 

Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her 
father was out. 

“He said he did so want to be here to welcome 
you himself, but he is always very busy. Some one 
sent for him, I think.” 

The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than 
nothing for the non-appearance of his future host and 
tutor. The prospect of the schoolroom tea had touched 
him more nearly. 

But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort 
of nightmare. 

Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection 
of that dreadful meal. 

Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves 
into good-natured, cheerful little girls, and Adrian into 
a slightly spoilt and rather precocious little boy, ad- 
dicted to remarks of the type hailed as “wonderful” 
in the drawing-room and “affected humbug’’ in the 
schoolroom. 

But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been 
two monsters with enormous eyes that stared dis- 
approvingly, all the time, straight at Owen Quentillian 
and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly incom- 
prehensible, rather malignant little creature, who had 
asked questions. 

“Can you see colours for each day of the week?” 


10 THE OPTIMIST 


Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much 
alarmed as he had felt, in his utter bewilderment. 

“T think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, 
and Wednesday dark green,’ Adrian had then pro- 
claimed, triumphantly, and casting his big brown eyes 
about as though to make sure that his three sisters 
had heard the enunciation of his strange creed. 

“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of 
them had then said, with calm pride. 

Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently 
hoped that she spoke truly. 

Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, 
and had laughed in a way that made Owen flush when — 
they had asked him what India was like and he had 
answered “I don’t know.” 

He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, 
and wondered if there was never any cake. A vista of 
past teas, with sugared cakes from the drawing-room, 
especially selected by himself, and brought to his own 
little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him 
choke. 

There had been a dreadful moment when he had 
snatched at the horrid mug they had given him and 
held it before his face for a long, long time, desperately 
pretending to drink, and not daring to show his face. 

Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered 
the others more tea, but she had said nothing to the 
little strange boy, and he still felt grateful to her. 

The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his 
mind retained, of interminable slices of bread-and- 
butter that tasted like sawdust, of thick, ugly white 
china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and allu- 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 11 


sions in which he had no share, all came to a sudden 
end when he had given up any hope of ever being happy 
again so long as he lived. 

Canon Morchard had come into the room. 

And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into 
quiet, insignificant little girls, looking gently and trust- 
fully at their father, and no longer staring curiously 
at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a wide- 
eyed, guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter 
and the ugly china no longer existed at all. 

Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation. 

She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a 
matter-of-fact tone of voice. 

“T know, my child, I know.” 

His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the 
boy’s hand, and after a moment he stooped and put 
his lips gently to Owen’s forehead. 

Quentillian remembered a presence of general benig- 
nity, a strangely sweet smile that came, however, very 
rarely, a deep voice, and an effect of commanding 
height and size. 

Memory could not recapture any set form of words, 
but Quentillian endeavoured, whimsically, to recast 
certain speeches which he felt to be permeated with 
the spirit of the Canon. 

“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel 
this as home. We shall all of us endeavour to make 
it so. Lucilla here is my little housekeeper—ask her 
for anything that you want. Valeria—my tomboy. 
She and you will have some grand romps together. 
Flora is younger; nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora 
plays the piano, and we hope that she may show great 


12 THE OPTIMIST 


feeling for Art, by and bye. Little Adrian, I am sure, 
has already made friends with you. I call him the 
Little Friend of all the World. There are some very 
quaint fancies under this brown mop, but we shall 
make something out of them one of these days—one 
of these days.” 

Some such introduction there had certainly been. 
The Canon had been nothing if not categorical, and 
Quentillian could fancifully surmise in him a bewilder- 
ment not untinged with resentment had his Valeria 
one day tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patron- 
ize the piano, or Flora suddenly become imbued with 
a romping spirit, to the detriment of her artistic 
propensities. 

But the Canon’s children had always refrained from 
any volte-face calculated to disconcert their parent. 
Quentillian was almost sure that all of them, except 
Lucilla, had been afraid of him—even Adrian, on 
whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing 
tenderness. 

Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern re- 
bukes, called forth by Valeria’s tendency to untimely 
giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, or his own occasional 
sulks and obstinacy under the new régime. But he 
could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so 
abysmal had been the catastrophe, that imagination 
was unneeded for recalling it clearly. 

Adrian had told a lie. 

Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode. 

“Which of you children took a message for me 
from Radly yesterday? Not you, Lucilla?” 

“No, father.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 13 


“Mrs. Radly died last night.””’ The Canon’s face was 
suffused. “She asked for me all yesterday, and Radly 
actually left her in order to find some way of sending 
me a message. I hear now that he met “one of the 
St. Gwenllian children” and sent an urgent summons 
which was never delivered. Which was never delw- 
ered! (Good Heavens, children, think of it! I was here, 
in our own home circle, enjoying a pleasant evening 
reading aloud, when that woman was dying there in 
the farm, craving for the help and comfort that I, her 
shepherd and pastor, could and should have given her.” 

He covered his face with his hand and groaned 
aloud. 

“Tn all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, 
“T have never had a more bitter blow. And dealt me 
by one of my own household! Children,’ his voice 
boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received 
Radly’s message yesterday ?” 

Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the 
absence of any competition in laying claim to the im- 
plied responsibility. 

At last Lucilla said tentatively : 

vaca Hiorar \ 

“T never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other 
day,’ said Val, her brown eyes wide open and fixed 
straight upon her father. 

Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared. 

“Tt wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.” 

Her voice trembfed as though she feared to be dis- 
believed. 

“Owen?” said the Canon sternly. 

CINO,-sir.”” 


14. THE OPTIMIST 


“Adrian?” his voice softened. 

“No, father.’’ 

The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s 
answer. His hand was on the little boy’s brown curls, 
in the fond, half-absent, gesture habitual to him. 

He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen 
Quentillian. 

“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, 
“has been betrayed into telling me a lie, understand 
that it is not yet too late for full confession. Selfish 
heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible conse- 
quences, and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was 
out of the depths of my own grief and shame. The 
forgetfulness was bad—very bad—but that I can for- 
give. A lie, I can not forgive. It is not too late.” 

His face was white and terrible as he gazed with 
strained eyes at the children. 

Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm 
round her. 

“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly use- 
less. I know that message was given to one of you, 
and that it was not delivered, and it is simply a question 
of hours before I see Radly and obtain from him the 
name of the child to whom the message was given. I 
accuse no one of you, but I implore the culprit to speak 
out. Otherwise,” he hit the table with his clenched 
fist, and it seemed as though lightning shot from his 
blazing eyes, “‘otherwise I shall know that there dwells 
under my roof a liar and a coward.” 

Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in 
that deep, vibrant voice, terrifying the children. 

Not one of them spoke. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 15 


And the Canon had gone out of the room with 
anguish in his eyes. 

The nursery court-martial that followed was held by 
Lucilla. 

“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you 
stayed in all yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val 
were out in the afternoon?” 

“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” 
said Val, indignantly. “We never met anyone the 
whole way, did we, Owen?” 

PNG: 3 

Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was 
coming. He knew, with the terrible, intimate knowledge 
of the nursery, that Adrian was the only one of the 
Canon’s children who did not always speak the truth. 

Apparently Lucilla, also, knew. 

She said “Oh Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring 
voice. 

“T didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears. 

“T knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw 
Radly coming up the lane very fast, I saw him out 
of the night-nursery window, and I saw Adrian, too. 
I knew it was Adrian, all the time.” 

None of the children was surprised. 

Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted 
attitude, ceased his mechanical denials. 

The pre-occupation of them all, was Canon Mor- 
chard. 

“It'll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if 
Radly does,’’ Owen Quentillian pointed out. 

“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him 
a lie,” Val said crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much 


16 THE OPTIMIST 


notice what you said. I’m sure he thought it was 
Owen, all the time.” 


How much better if it had been Owen, if it had 
been any one of them, save the Canon’s best-loved child, 
his youngest son! 

“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla de- 
creed—but not hopefully. 

“T can’t. You know what he said about a liar and 
a coward under his roof.” 

Adrian cried and shivered. 


“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said 
Flora. ‘He took me on his knee and only just talked 
tome. I didn’t mind a bit.” 

_ “But you hadn’t told a story,’’ said the inexorable 
Val. 

They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter. 

Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed 
faces still—Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keep- 
ing a vigilant hold on Adrian all the time, Val, frankly 
horrified and full of outspoken predictions of the direst 
description, Flossie in tears, stroking and fondling 
Adrian’s hand with the tenderest compassion. He even 
visualized the pale, squarely built, little flaxen-haired 
boy that had been himself. 

They could not persuade Adrian to confess. 

At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, 
then I shall.” 

And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re- 
entering the schoolroom, had, with a penetration to 
which his children were accustomed, instantly perceived 
the tears and the terror on Adrian’s face. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 17 


“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?” 

The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he 
held out his hand! 

Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the 
enquiry—Adrian’s opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, 
even while she knew, as they all did, that he would take 
no advantage of it. 

Then Lucilla had told. 

Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwell- 
ing for the first time, with a certain surprised admira- 
tion, upon Lucilla’s resolute, almost matter-of-fact per- 
formance of her painful and alarming task. 

Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and 
Lucilla had steadily repeated, and reiterated again and 
again, the dreadful truth. 

A black time had followed. 

It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in 
the retrospect. Could it have extended over a week? 
Strangely enough, Quentillian could not recall the exact 
fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon first 
fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had 
actually broken down, tears streaming down his fur- 
rowed face, and that the sight of this unrestrained dis- 
play of suffering had caused the boy Owen to creep 
from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one 
who had witnessed an indecency. 

All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely 
counted as one of them, had avoided Canon Morchard 
in the ensuing days. They had crept about the house 
silently, and at meals no one spoke until the Canon had 
left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball 
in the passage and inadvertently bouncing it against 


18 THEFOPEIMES SD 


the closed study door, had been suddenly confronted by 
the Canon, and the look of grief and horror fixed 
upon that handsome face had rendered any spoken re- 
buke for levity unnecessary. 

After all, they had left an impression, those Mor- 
chards, all of them, Quentillian reflected. 

Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent— 
perhaps a little inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, in- 
clined to defiance, yet frankly terrified of her father. 
Flossie—impossible to think of her as Flora, unless 
the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones— 
surely the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less 
self-assured than Lucilla, timid only with her father. 
Adrian, of course, did not speak the truth. His con- 
temporaries had known it, although Canon Morchard 
had not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. 
But then he had never realized that the children were 
afraid of him. 

Why had they all been afraid of him? 

Quentillian decided that it must have been because 
of his own phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of 
honour, and above all and especially, his deep, funda- 
mental sense of religion. 

Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the pres- 
ence of God.” Even the little boy Owen had known 
that, and, thinking backwards, Quentillian was con- 
vinced of it still. 

He felt curious to see the Canon again. David 
Morchard had said to him in Mesopotamia: “Go and 
see him. ‘They’ve none of them forgotten you, and 
they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been 
home once in five years.”’ 3 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 19 


The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentil- 
lian expressive. 

But evidently David had judged his family correctly. 
The Canon had written and invited his old pupil to 
stay with him. 

“Tt will not only be joy untold to receive news of our 
dear lad, David, but a real pleasure to us all to wel- 
come you amongst us once more. I have not forgot- 
ten my pupil of long ago days, nor my daughters their 
erstwhile playfellow. You will find all at home, in- 
cluding Adrian. Dear fellow, I had hoped it was to 
be the Church for him, but he has been so open, so 
anxious to decide the whole important question rightly, 
that one can only leave the decision to him in all 
confidence. I would not hurry him in any way, but 
his brief Army days are over, thank God, and we have 
the untold pleasure of having him with us now, so 
full of fun and high spirits, dear boy. You, with your 
pre-war experience of Oxford, will perhaps be able 
to talk things over with him and help him to a right 
and wise decision. 

“You will remember my eldest daughter, Lucilla. 
She is still my right hand, mothering the younger 
ones, and yet finding time for all sorts of wider in- 
terests than those afforded by her secretarial work 
for me. I think that you will agree with me that 
Lucilla’s intellectual abilities, had she been less of a 
home bird, must have made their mark in the world. 

“Valeria is still something of the madcap that per- 
haps you remember. Her energy and enthusiasm keep 
us all in the best of spirits, even though we are some- 
times a little startled at the new ideas sprung upon 


20 THE OPTIMIST 


us. Both she and Flora worked valiantly during the 
terrible war years, though I could spare neither of 
my darlings to leave home for very long at a time. 
Valeria, however, was six months in France at a Can- 
teen, and I believe rendered really valuable service. 
Little Flora, as IJ still call her, gives pleasure to us all 
with her music, and our men in hospital were sharers 
in her gift as far as we could manage it.” 

Quentillian took up yet another sheet of note-paper 
covered with small, legible writing. It came back to 
him with a sense of familiarity, that the Canon had al- 
ways been an expansive and prolific writer of letters. 

“Make us a long visit, my dear boy. There are no 
near ones to claim you, alas, and I should like you to 
remember that it was to us that your dear father and 
mother first confided you when they left you for what 
we then hoped was to be only a short term of years. 
God saw otherwise, my dear lad, and called them unto 
Himself. How incomprehensible are His ways, and 
how, through it all, one must feel that mysterious cer- 
tainty ‘all things work together for good, to those 
that love Him!’ Those words have been more pres- 
ent to me than I can well tell you, during the years of 
storm and stress. David’s long, weary time in Meso- 
potamia tried one high, but when Adrian, my Ben- 
jamin, buckled on his armour and went forth, my 
heart must have failed me, but for that wonderful 
strength that seems to bear one up in the day of tribu- 
lation. How often have I not said to myself: ‘He hath 
given His angels charge over thee . . . in their hands 
they shall bear thee up, lest haply thou dash thy foot 
against a stone!’ 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 21 


“Perhaps you will smile at this rambling letter of an 
almost-old man, but I fancy that as one grows older, 
the need to bear testimony becomes ever a stronger 
and more personal thing. His ways are so wonderful! 
It seems to me, for instance, a direct gift from His 
hand that the Owen Quentillian to whom I gave his 
first Latin prose should be returning to us once more, 
a distinguished young writer. I wonder if we shall 
recognize you? I have so vivid a recollection of the 
white hair and eyelashes that made the village boys 
call out, ‘Go it, Snowball!’ as they watched your prow- 
ess on the football field! 

“Well, dear fellow, I must close this. You have only 
to let us know the day and hour of your arrival, and 
the warmest of welcomes awaits you. 

“T must sign myself, in memory of old happy times, 

“Yours ever affectionately, 
“FENWICK MorcHARD.” 


Quentillian, with great precision, folded the sheets 
together again. 

“So Lucilla is a home-bird, Valeria is still something 
of a madcap, Flora is still ‘little Flora,’ and Adrian 
is a dear lad who is anxious to decide rightly about his 
future career.” 

He wondered doubtfully whether he himself would 
come to endorse the Canon’s opinion of the Canon’s 
progeny. 

And what was the Canon himself, if labels were 
to be thus distributed? 

The sensation of doubt in Quentillian’s mind was 
accentuated, but he concluded his reflections by remind- 


ah THE OPTI MES & 


ing himself, half tolerantly, and half with a certain 
grimness, that the Canon was at least, according to 
himself, Quentillian’s ever affectionate Fenwick Mor- 
chard. 


(i1) 


“Tus is like old times,” said Quentillian. 

Lucilla Morchard smiled, shook hands with him, and 
made no answer, and Quentillian immediately, and with 
annoyance, became conscious that the occasion was 
not in the least like old times. 

Apparently Miss Morchard did not accept clichés 
uncritically. 

Her face, indeed, expressed a spirit both critical and 
perceptive. Quentillian could still trace the schoolgirl 
Lucilla in the clearly-cut, unbeautiful oval, with the 
jaw slightly underhung, grey, short-sighted eyes, and 
straight black brows. Her dark hair was folded plainly 
beneath her purple straw hat, but he could discern that 
there was all the old abundance of it. Her figure was 
tall and youthful, but her face made her look fully her 
age. He surmised that Lucilla must be thirty-five, 
now. 

“This time, my father is here to welcome you.” 

She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon. 

“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome—welcome you be, in- 
deed !”’ 

A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid 
across his shoulders, and the Canon’s ful!, hearty voice, 
very deep and musical, rang in his ears. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 23 


Quentillian felt inadequate. 

With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, 
he was perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth 
of feeling and ardour of demonstration awoke in him- 
self nothing but a slight, distinctly unpleasant, sensa- 
tion of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as un- 
responsive as he felt. 

“T think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?” 

The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled 
his unwilling returned prodigal to remain still, facing 
him, and submit to a scrutiny from kind, narrowed 
eyes. 

“Just the same. All is well—well, indeed.” 

The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between 
the shoulders, as they walked down the platform. 

“The trap is waiting, dear boy. They are eager for 
your arrival, at home. I have my whole goodly com- 
pany awaiting you, thank God—Lucilla here, and my 
merry Valeria, and little Flora with her incurably shy 
ways, and my Benjamin—the youngest of the flock— 
Adrian. You and Adrian must have many talks, dear 
lad. I want just such a friend for him as yourself— 
full of youth, and fun, and merriment, as he is himself, 
and yet able to help him when it comes to facing the 
deeper issues—the deeper issues. You young people 
must have many wise, deep talks, together, such as 
youth loves. I remember my University days so well 
and how ‘we tired the sun with talking’—aye, Owen, 
your father and I were famous philosophers, once upon 
a time! How does that strike you, eh?” 

It struck Quentillian principally that his father’s 
contemporary reminded him oddly of a book of late 


24 DEE OPE Pare 


Victorian memoirs, but he did not voice the impression 
aloud. 

Instead, it was a relief to him to be able to make 
an obvious, and yet perfectly sincere, comment upon 
the unchanged aspect of the old red-brick house, stand- 
ing well away from the small town. 

“Valeria is our gardener,” said Canon Morchard. 
“You will be consulted about various borders and the 
like, no doubt. But we have all of us an interest in 
botany. You must remember that from the old days, 
eh? There was a collecting craze, if I remember 
rightly, that led to a great deal of friendly rivalry 
amongst you children.”’ 

Quentillian’s recollection of the collecting craze dif- 
fered so drastically from that of the Canon, that he 
glanced involuntarily at Lucilla. She met his eye 
calmly, but he fancied a little latent hostility in her 
unconsciousness. 

It rather served to confirm his impression of the 
extreme lack of spontaneity that had characterized 
those bygone excursions into the realms of Nature. 
They had been undertaken, at least by himself and his 
ally and contemporary, Valeria, with one eye, as it 
were, upon the Canon’s study window. Even Adrian, 
if Quentillian remembered rightly, had relaxed the 
normal enthusiasm of boyhood in the pursuit of bird’s 
eggs, after the wondrous eye for detail of the bird’s 
Creator had been sufficiently often pointed out to 
him. 

“Welcome home,” said the Canon happily. “You 
remember the old garden? I seem to recollect some 
capital fun going on amongst the old rhododendron 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 25 


bushes at hide-and-seek, eh? We play lawn-tennis, 
nowadays. I see a sett is going on now. Who is 
here this afternoon, Lucilla?” 

“Captain Cuscaden is playing with Flora, and I sup- 
pose it’s Mr. Clover in the far court.” 

“To be sure. Clover is my excellent curate, who 
has been one of ourselves for several years now. Sit 
ye down, young people, sit ye down. Tea will be 
out here directly, and the players will no doubt come for 
refreshment.” 

The Canon settled himself with the deliberation of 
a heavily-built man, and leant back in his wicker chair, 
with finger-tips joined together, the breeze stirring 
the thick grey hair upon his temples. 

It was a cameo-like head, with something of the 
ivory colouring of a cameo, but the cameo’s blank orbs 
were replaced by deeply-set, brilliant hazel eyes of 
which the flashing, ardent outlook recalled at once the 
child and the fanatic. Innumerable fine lines were 
crossed and recrossed at the corners of either socket, 
but the broad forehead was singularly open and un- 
lined. 

Quentillian noted the feminine sweetness of the 
closed mouth, contrasting with the masculine jut of 
the strong, prominent jaw. His mind registered simul- 
taneously the recollection of the Canon’s violent and 
terrifying outbursts of anger, and his astonishing capa- 
bilities of tenderness. 

The latter expression was altogether predominant, as 
the tennis players came to join the group under the 
cedars. 

“Valeria—Flora—you need no introductions here, 


26 THEVORTIMIiISL 


dear lad. Clover, let me present my old pupil—one 
of whom you have very often heard us speak—Owen 
Quentillian. This is my very good friend and helper. 
And . . . Ah, Captain Cuscaden—Mr. Quentil- 
lian.” 

Quentillian fancied less enthusiasm in this last in- 
troduction, and it seemed to him significant that no 
descriptive phrase followed the name. Either Captain 
Cuscaden was not worth classifying, or he could not 
satisfactorily be relegated into any class, and Quen- 
tillian suspected that Canon Morchard would resent the 
latter state of affairs more than the former. 

At all events, Cuscaden was good-looking, of bold 
allure and sunburnt face, revealing the most perfect 
of teeth in a pleasant smile. 

Mr. Clover was sandy and pale and seemed to be 
talkative. 

“T believe I should have known you anywhere,” 
Valeria Morchard told Quentillian, frankly gazing at 
him. He was not sorry to have the opportunity of gaz- 
ing back as frankly at her. 

As children, the handsome or unhandsome looks of 
Val, his inseparable playmate, had naturally interested 
him not at all. He had vaguely acquiesced in the uni- 
versal nursery dictum that Flora, with her fair curls 
and wide, innocent eyes, was pretty, but he now found 
her blond slenderness insignificant in the extreme com- 
pared to Valeria, with her tall and perfectly balanced 
figure, ripe-apricot bloom, and brown laughing eyes. 
No longer a very young girl, she somehow combined 
the poise of her twenty-seven years with a shy, semi- 
abruptness of diction reminiscent of seventeen. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 27 


Quentillian thought her charming. 

So, apparently, did the other men. 

“And who bore off the palm of victory?” 
Canon Morchard indicated the tennis court. 


“We won, at five games all. A very good sett,” 
Clover replied. ‘My partner’s service is almost in- 
vincible.”’ 

Canon Morchard smiled. 

“We think Valeria’s service is her strong point,” he 
explained to Quentillian. “She was coached by our 
dear David, and David is no mean player, I assure you. 
Little Flora needs to stand up to the ball better—stand 
up to the ball better. Flora has the feminine tendency 
to hit out too soon—eh, Flora? Our champion is 
Adrian, however. You and he will have some great 
contests, I foresee.” 

The more the Canon foresaw, the more did Quen- 
tillian’s own aspirations turn in search of contrary 
directions. The only diversion of those predicted by 
his host, of which he felt able to tolerate the thought, 
was that of being consulted by Valeria upon the her- 
baceous borders. 


“Clover, there, has a particularly good stroke on to 
the back line, but you’ll get to know it. Have you 
played at all since you left the ’Varsity ?”’ 

“T got a good deal of tennis when I was home on 
leave in nineteen-sixteen, but nothing after that, when 
I was in Mesopotamia.” 

“Were you not in Flanders, dear boy?” 

“In ’fifteen and ’sixteen,”’ said Quentillian briefly. 

He wished to remember neither his two years on the 


28 THE OPTIMIST 


Western front, nor his many months in Hospital with 
shell-shock. 

“Where did you and David meet, in Mesopotamia?” 
inquired Lucilla. 

Quentillian had forgotten her presence, if not her 
existence, but he. felt grateful to her for sparing him 
the tentative category of his soldiering capabilities 
which he suspected the Canon of having in readiness. 

He was not, however, given time to answer Lucilla’s 
question. 

The Canon’s hand was uplifted. 

“Ah, Lucilla my dear—please! My little talk with 
Owen there, is to come later. There is so much that 
I want to hear about our David—much, indeed. And 
you shall have your share of news about your brother, 
my child, but wait—at least wait—until we have had 
our little private talk together.” 

Lucilla bent her head a little under the rebuke either 
in acquiescence or to conceal some slight confusion; but 
Valeria blushed hotly and unmistakably, and everyone 
looked constrained except the Canon, who looked rather 
severe, rather grieved, and at the same time perfectly 
serene. When he spoke again, it was with marked 
suavity. 

“Tell us something of your literary work, dear fel- 
low,” he requested Quentillian. ‘I am ashamed to say 
that I have read nothing of yours, as yet. My time is 
so little my own. Lucilla here is our literary critic.” 

He placed his thin, beautiful hand, for a fleeting 
moment upon his eldest daughter’s hand. 

“Lucilla tells me that she knows your work. Critical 
essays, 18 it?” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 29 


pes, Siti’ 

Quentillian gravely acknowledged the truth of the 
assertion. His self-consciousness rather enhanced 
than diminished in him a keen appraisement, perhaps 
rather less detached than he would have liked it to be, 
of his own literary value. 

“I published a small volume of essays before the 
war, but since then I have only been a very occasional 
contributor to one or two of the reviews.” 

“Ah, yes. You must let me see what you have done, 
some day. This is the era of youth. Indeed, some 
of the things I see in print today strike me as not only 
crude and immature, but absolutely mischievous—false, 
foolish, shallow teaching from those who have never 
submitted to be taught themselves. I am not afraid 
of that in your case, Owen. But remember this, all 
you young people: Nothing can be of real or lasting 
value that is not founded upon the broad principles of 
Christianity—charity, self-sacrifice, humility, loving- 
kindness. One feels that, more than ever, nowadays, 
when cynicism is so much in fashion.” 

The Canon leant back in his chair again with his 
eyes closed, as though momentarily exhausted by the 
extraordinary passion with which he had spoken. 

So profoundly did Owen Quentillian disagree with 
his host, that he remained absolutely silent. He re- 
minded himself that since his majority he had sought, 
voluntarily, only the companionship of those whose 
views were at least as progressive as his own. He 
had almost forgotten that those other, older, views 
existed, were held with a passion of sincerity contrast- 
ing oddly with the cool, detached, carefully impersonal 


30 . THE OPTIMIST 


logic that was the only attitude contemplated by him- 
self and his kind for the consideration of all problems 
of ethics, morals, or of Life itself. 

No doubt the Canon did not admit the normal evo- 
lution of the art of self-sacrifice to be self-advertise- 
ment, and held the officious pelican to be the best of 
birds. 

Quentillian, horribly aware of his own priggishness, 
wanted to reform the whole of the Canon’s philosophy 
at once. 

Nevertheless he retained enough humour to hope that 
the preposterous desire had not been apparent in his 
silence. 

His eyes met those of Valeria Morchard, and read 
there amusement, and something not unlike protest. 

Lucilla, in her level voice, offered him tea. 

“The cup that cheers,” said Mr. Clover in a nervous 
way. 

The ineptitude roused in Quentillian a dispropor- 
tionate sense of irritation and renewed his old convic- 
tion that his nerves were not even yet under his com- 
plete control. 

As though the Canon, too, were mildly averse from 
such trivialities, he began to speak again. 

“What one feels in the cleverness of the day is the 
note of ugliness that prevails. Do you not feel that? 
The sordid, the grotesque, the painful—all, all sought 
out and dwelt upon. That, we are told, is the new 
realism. We know, indeed, that there is a sad side to 
life, but is it realism to dwell only upon one side of 
the picture? Surely, surely, a sane optimism were the 
better outlook—the truer realism.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 31 


“You don’t think, then, that the optimism of Eng- 
land is responsible for her present plight, sir?” 

Quentillian’s tone was one of respectful suggestion, 
but he was aware that Val, beside him, had suddenly 
caught her breath as though at an audacity, and that 
Flora and Mr. Clover were both gazing anxiously at 
the Canon. 

A flash of lightning shot from those ardent eyes 
straight into the passionless irony of the younger 
man’s. 

“But for England’s optimism, there would be no 
England today. It was the spirit of optimism that won 
the war, Owen.” 

A sick recollection of men, armed and disciplined, 
taking steady aim at other men, standing against a wall 
to be shot for cowardice or treason, of grey-faced 
commanders leading those who followed them into 
certain death, all surged into Quentillian’s rebellious 
mind. They, the men who had been there, had known 
better than to prate of optimism. 

They had faced facts, had anticipated disaster, had 
envisaged the worst possibilities, and their pessimism 
had won the war. 

“Are you, too, bitten with the folly of the day?” 

The Canon’s voice was gentle again, his arm once 
more laid across Quentillian’s shoulders. 

“Did I not hear something about shell-shock, dear 
fellow? We must have no talk of the war here. 
Thank God for that He hath brought it to an end. 
Tell me, dear lad, will you play tennis?” 

Bewildered, almost affronted, Quentillian yet agreed 
to play tennis, feeling himself more like a forward 


32 THE OPTIMIST 


boy, being treated with forbearance, than like a modern 
intellect illuminating the way of thought for the older 
generation. 

He played with Valeria as his partner, and found 
the Canon’s eulogy of her service to be entirely justi- 
fied. 

He found an opportunity at the end of the game 
of expressing his admiration for her play, and she 
replied, conventionally enough, that she had a great 
deal of practice. 

“There isn’t much else to do,’ she added, with a 
slight grimace. 

Under pretext of looking for a distant ball, they 
continued the conversation. 

“Tf you remember this place at all,’’ Val said, “you 
know how dull it is. Just tennis in the summer, and 
horrible bazaars and jumble sales, and never a new 
person or a new idea from year’s end to year’s end.” 

“It sounds appalling. But, after all, you’re not 
bound, in the old, antiquated way. You can go away.” 

“No I can’t,” she said bluntly. “I did get to France, 
for six months, during the war, but it was only because 
it was the war. And even then—oh, well, the sort - 
of letters I got were enough to make me feel that 
Father really hated my being there.” 

Quentillian was genuinely aghast. 

“But I thought that sort of attitude had gone out 
with all the other Victorian traditions. I thought 
women did what they liked—were as free as men,” 

“That’s what it says in the books I read, and what 
some of the girls I met in France told me. But it 
isn’t like that here. And one can’t hurt Father. You 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 33 


know what he’s like—so good, and so sensitive, and— 
and so noble, somehow. He makes modern things 
seem trivial—vulgar, even.” 

“Your father is a reactionary,’ said Quentillian 
kindly, rather as one might say: “Your father is a 
Hottentot.”’ 

“You mustn’t think that he just wants us to stay 
at home and arrange the flowers,” Val said. “You 
know how he always wanted us to have intellectual 
interests. Oh, Owen, don’t you remember the collec- 
tions?” 

She broke off, and blushed and laughed. 

“It seems so very natural—I’ve so often thought of 
you as Owen.” 

“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian 
calmly. 

He had every intention of retaining his early privi- 
leges, where Val was concerned. 

“TI should like to read some of the things you’ve 
written,” she said abruptly. “Lucilla reads your arti- 
cles, and has always admired them.” 

It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that 
anybody who read his articles should admire them, 
that he was conscious of receiving a slight shock when 
Valeria added: 

“TI gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lu- 
cilla always kept them out of his way.” 

“She is devoted to him, I can see that.’’ 

“Yes, of course.” 

Something in her voice made him look at her, and 
she exclaimed, half laughing and half petulant: ‘““We’re 
all devoted to him, Lucilla and Flossie and I! I didn’t 


34 THE OPTIMIST 


mean the least shadow of a criticism of him. Only 
that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his 
level.” 

It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of 
affairs that the Canon’s three daughters should have 
no worthier aim in life than the one implied, that 
something of his feeling was reflected in his face, and 
Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for 
the missing ball, found it, and returned to the tea- 
table and the group there. 

The Canon was again speaking, this time to young 
Cuscaden. 

“Tf it is to be Canada, I believe I could give you one 
or two introductions that might be of service to you. 
The Government people, for instance. . . . I have 
one or two very good friends amongst them. You 
are really anxious to leave the Army and try coloni- 
zation?” 

“Quite determined to, sir.” 

“Ah, you young fellows, you young fellows! It 
seems to me that there is none of the spirit of stability 
that existed in our day! But perhaps the wish to see 
further afield is a natural one. Certainly, my own 
greatest regret is that I have had so little time for 
travelling.” 

He turned to Lucilla. 

“Your dearest mother and I had planned a visit to 
Italy the very year that she was taken from us. Well, 
well! It was not to be. I shall never see the Eternal 
City now, I imagine, except with the eyes of the mind. 
Clover, you are amongst those who have seen Rome. 
Think of it! Seen Rome, where Peter healed and 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 35 


Paul preached the Gospel, where Laurence and Agnes 
and Cyprian and countless others were martyred! Tell 
us something of the Coliseum.” 

Mr. Clover did not give the effect of being an elo- 
quent person, but he had evidently been called upon 
before by the Canon, and he gave a not unilluminating 
little description, punctuated, and indeed supplemented, 
by Canon Morchard’s exhaustive comments. 

Quentillian listened in a sort of amazement, not at 
all untinged by a rather uncertain wonder as to how 
he should ever sustain his own part in these ingenuous 
conversations. ... 

The others, he saw, listened, with the possible excep- 
tion of Lucilla, whose eyes were fixed upon a distant 
flower-bed. 

Captain Cuscaden kept his gaze upon Valeria, but 
he put in an occasional question, generally upon a sub- 
ject of architecture. Flora played with a leaf and said 
nothing at all, and Val, unconsciously, Quentillian felt 
sure, repeated everything her father said in more col- 
loquial English. 

“It amazes me to realize that with a lack of all our 
modern appliances, such veritable giants of architecture 
should yet have been raised,’’ mused the Canon. 

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful to think they had none of 
our machines and things, and yet made those enormous 
statues and gates and things?” said Val. 

“Well for us, indeed, that they did so, my child. 
Every fresh excavation proves to be a new link with 
the past.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. 

“Yes, all the new things they dig up seem to make 


36 wei EROS DIVAS 


a fresh link with those old Roman days,” echoed Val 
faithfully. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. 

“If any of you young people followed the accounts 
of the recent Egyptian excavations—Valeria, I think 
you are our keenest antiquarian—were you not struck 
by the extraordinary confirmation of Scripture narra- 
tive afforded by each fresh discovery ?”’ 

This time Mr. Clover only said “Indeed?” and Va- 
leria repeated: 

“Yes, it all carried out the things one reads in the 
Bible, didn’t it?” 

“We required no such confirmation, certainly, but 
it comes to one as a fresh joy, and brings these things 
home with full force.” 

And Mr. Clover, with what Quentillian perversely 
chose to regard as misplaced ingenuity, once more 
found a variation of his formula, and remarked, “In- 
deed, yes.” 

On these lines they talked about Egypt. 

Then they talked about Rome again. 

Then they went back to Egypt. 

Quentillian looked at the rebellious profile beneath 
Val’s shady hat, and came to the conclusion that, 
whether she fully realized it or not, she was as pro- 
foundly bored as himself. 

It was Captain Cuscaden who released them from 
the strain, by rising to take his leave. 

“T’m sorry you have not seen Adrian. He will be 
disappointed to have missed you,” Canon Morchard 
said courteously. “Another day, when Adrian is at 
home, you. must come over again. He is spending the 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 37 


afternoon with friends at a distance, and will hardly 
be home before dinner-time. You must come over 
again,” 

“Thank you, sir. I should like to very much.” 

Something in the Captain’s prompt reply convinced 
Quentillian that his acceptance was not merely a con- 
ventional one. 

“Your motor-bicycle is round by the hall door,” said 
Valeria, and she and Captain Cuscaden left the garden 
together. 

“And now, dear lad, you and I must have some talk 
together.”’ 

Rather to Quentillian’s dismay, the firm and genial 
pronouncement of his host seemed to have been antici- 
pated. Lucilla could be discerned bending over the 
distant flower-bed which had been the object of her 
solicitation during the talk about Rome, and Flora had 
disappeared. Mr. Clover now turned and hastened 
towards the house. 

“You and I have had our heart-to-heart talks before 
now, Owen,” said the Canon affectionately. “We must 
have many more of them, dear fellow—many more.” 


(iii) 


THE natural instinct of Quentillian, as of everybody 
else, was to suppose that a heart-to-heart talk must 
necessarily be upon the subject of himself. 

He was therefore slightly disconcerted, though also 
undoubtedly relieved, when he perceived that the 
Canon’s thoughts were only preoccupied with his own 
two sons. 


38 THE OPTIMIST 


They disposed of David with a rapidity that was 
partly due to Quentillian’s own determined uncom- 
municativeness, and partly to the Canon’s evident anx- 
iety to get on to the topic of Adrian. 

“T wish David had been able to come home before 
returning to India, but no doubt these things are or- 
dered for us. He writes fondly and affectionately, 
dear boy—fondly and affectionately. Not as often as 
I could wish, perhaps, but the young are thoughtless. 
It costs so little to send one line to those who are 
anxiously waiting and watching at home! Well, well 
—it has been a great joy to near that the dear fellow 
is his own bright self. And his faith, Owen? Is all 
well there? Did he say anything to you of that?” 

NOMSITE: 

The Canon sighed. 

“Perhaps it was not to be expected. You of the 
present generation do not discuss these things as we 
did. Even at Oxford, I am told, the men no longer 
preoccupy themselves with such questions in the same 
way.” 

“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel 
rather sorry for the Canon. 

The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consola- 
tory effort very much at its true worth. 

“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not 
those from whom any very valuable contribution to the 
problems of the times is to be expected. The tone 
of Oxford is not what it was, Owen—not what it was. 
It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian 
there, to find an Alma Mater indeed, as his father 
before him. One had always thought of the Church 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 39 


for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. 
His soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings 
that way. Adrian is one reason, amongst many others, 
why I am glad to welcome you amongst us, Owen. He 
may find it easier to discuss things with a contempo- 
rary,’ said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, 
I imagine, is sealed?” 

Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the 
very small property recently inherited by himself in no 
such grandiloquent terms. 

“When do you take possession of your kingdom?” 

“Tn a few months, sir. The place was let during my 
uncle’s lifetime, and there are repairs to be done before 
I go there. I intend to live there, and try my hand 
at farming.” 

He purposely omitted any mention of his writing. 

“Good—good—excellent indeed. And we shall not 
be very distant neighbours, eh?” 

“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should 
like to go over there from here, if you’re kind enough 
to put up with me for two or three days.” 

“By all means, of course—but let there be no talk 
of two or three days, Owen, between you and me. 
Make this your headquarters; come and go quite freely, 
as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you 
as one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I 
think you have no very close ties, this side of the 
Great Division?” 

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Quentillian, 
feeling unable to accept the Great Division even by 
implication, but sincerely grateful for the Canon’s most 
genuine and spontaneous kindness. 


40 THE OPTIMIST 


“It’s more than good of you to receive me so kindly, 
and I shall be only too glad to take you at your word.” 

He wished that his self-consciousness had allowed 
him to make this speech without a perfectly clear reali- 
zation that he only did so because the normal economy 
of expression habitual to him would have left the elder 
man dissatisfied. 

As it was, the Canon’s arm was, for the second time 
that day, affectionately laid across Quentillian’s shoul- 
ders, and thus they paced the garden and eventually 
entered the house, to the extreme relief of the Canon’s 
unresponsive prop. 

“Your room, dear Owen. Lucilla is my housekeeper. 
Ask her for anything you want,” said the Canon, carry- 
ing Quentillian back to his ninth year, and almost 
making him expect to hear next that Valeria was the 
Canon’s tomboy. 

No such inapposite piece of information followed, 
and Quentillian expressed his pleasure at the very 
charming room in which he found himself. 

“Make it your own, dear lad, for as long as you 
will,” and, as though irrepressibly, the Canon added as 
he closed the door: “Bless you.” 

At dinner, Quentillian saw Adrian Morchard. He 
thought him very like his sister Val, and also very like 
the little boy who had rehearsed aloud colours for each 
day of the week. 

Adrian spoke of Quentillian’s writings, said that he 
had read some of them, and was instantly and silently 
disbelieved by the author. The subject was not pur- 
sued. 

In the drawing-room, later on in the evening, Flora 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 41 


played the piano, and although Quentillian was no 
musician, he had sufficient knowledge to understand 
that Flora was one. She played Bach, at the Canon’s 
request, and Debussy at Adrian’s. The Canon ad- 
mitted, with a slight, grave smile, that he did not ad- 
mire Debussy. 

Valeria occupied herself with needlework, but Lu- 
cilla sat with her hands folded until her father said 
gently : 

‘“‘Are we to see none of your great tomes tonight, 
my dear?” 

Lucilla rose, and her father explained to the guest: 

“There are certain references for a small compilation 
that I may one day attempt, which Lucilla is kindly 
looking out for me. You remember her as a very 
scholarly little girl, no doubt.” 

The nearest thing Quentillian could compass to this 
was a very distinct remembrance of having listened to 
several of the novels of Sir Walter Scott, read aloud 
by Lucilla, and the Canon looked very much pleased 
at the reminiscence. 

“We are not without our literary evenings now,” 
he declared. “There have been some very pleasant 
readings and discussions round the lamp on winter 
evenings. Lucilla provides me with some absorbing 
book, and Valeria has her strip of embroidery there, 
and Flora is busy with her pencil. I enjoy a pleasant 
evening of reading aloud.” 

The present occasion was not, however, one of read- 
ing aloud; nevertheless, Quentillian had none of the 
talk with Valeria that he had half-hoped to have. 

The Canon’s attitude towards his family circle was 


42 ELE OP NES by 


patriarchal. He sat in an armchair and talked a great 
deal to Quentillian, and his eyes rested with grave satis- 
faction upon his children, grouped round him. 

They remained there until half-past nine, when the 
Canon read prayers to the assembled household. 

“We break up early,” he said afterwards to Quen- 
tillian. “Lucilla and I have work to do—she is always 
my right hand. Valeria and Flora, I believe, discuss 
mysterious questions of chiffons upstairs. Don’t pro- 
long the conference too late, though, my dears. I 
heard voices last night as I came upstairs, which was 
not as it should be—not as it should be. Owen, dear 
boy, Adrian will look after you. Good-night to.you 
all.% | 

The Canon kissed Val and Flora each on the fore- 
head and laid his hand for an instant upon either head 
with a murmur that was evidently an habitual nightly 
blessing. 

Then he went into his study with Lucilla, and Adrian 
and Quentillian sat in the smoking-room making desul- 
tory conversation that bore not the slightest resem- 
blance to the wise, deep talks of the Canon’s fore- 
castings. 

The forecastings of the Canon, in fact, like those 
of many other dominating personalities, were scrupu- 
lously carried out in his presence, and thankfully al- 
lowed to lapse in his absence. 

As of old, it was only Lucilla who was completely 
at ease in her father’s company, and Quentillian pres- 
ently came to the conclusion that her silence, her un- 
emotional acquiescences, denoted a mind that was 
merely a reflection of his. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 43 


Flora, remote, gentle, preoccupied with her music, 
gave him the odd illusion of being slightly withdrawn 
from them all. 

Only in Valeria were to be discerned suppressed, but 
unmistakable, flashes of rebellion, and with Valeria, 
Quentillian, as usual scrutinizing his own impressions 
under a microscope, presently suspected himself of fall- 
ing quietly in love. 

In common with most young men of his day, Quen- 
tillian considered himself to have outlived passion. In 
effect, the absorbing episode of his young manhood was 
in fact over, and Val, ingenuous and beautiful, was 
provocative of the normal reaction. 

One night she joined Adrian and Quentillian in the 
smoking-room, after the Canon’s usual disappearance 
into his study. 

With a look half-frightened and half-mischievous, 
she lit a cigarette. 

Adrian laughed. 

“Don’t look so guilty, Val. It isn’t a crime, and 
besides, no one will know.” 

Val coloured in a childish way, and said to Quen- 
tillian : 

“My father knows that I smoke—at least, I think 
he knows, in a sort of way. He doesn’t like it, and 
that’s why I don’t do it in front of him,” she concluded 
naively. 

“You're wrong, Val,’ said Adrian. “You and 
Flossie ought to assert yourselves more. It would 
make it much easier for me, if you did. Father’s ideas 
about women are so old-fashioned, one can’t introduce 
him to any of one’s friends.” 


44 THE OPTIMIST 


Quentillian exchanged a glance with Valeria. It 
required small acumen to translate the plurality of 
Adrian’s “friends” into the singular, and the feminine 
singular at that. 


“Father is very broad-minded,” said Valeria con- 
scientiously. ‘“‘He never says that smoking is wrong; 
only that it’s unfeminine.” 


“Tt isn’t anything of the sort,” Adrian declared with 
the most astonishing violence. “Some people—girls— 
require it for their nerves. It soothes them. It doesn’t 
make them in the least unfeminine. I] met a girl the 
other day—you'd have liked her awfully, Val—and she 
simply smoked perfectly naturally, the whole time, just 
like a man.” 

“Who was she?” inquired Val smoothly. 

“Let me see—what was her name now?” 


This time Quentillian avoided Valeria’s eyes, posi- 
tively abashed by the extreme hollowness of Adrian’s 
pretence at forgetfulness. 


“Oh, yes—Olga Duffle—Miss Olga Duffle. She is 
staying with the Admastons—the people I was with 
the day you arrived, Owen. Don’t you think you girls 
might ask them all over to tennis, one of these days?” 


“I suppose so—yes, of course we will. Would 
Father like Miss Duffle? He doesn’t much care for 
the Admastons, does he?” 


“Absolute prejudice, my dear girl. You've got into 
a rut, all you people down here—that’s what you’ve 
done. You'd like Olga most awfully—everybody does. 
She’s the most popular girl in London, and not a bit 
spoilt, although she’s an only child and her people 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 45 


adore her. Mrs. Duffle told me herself that Olga was 
just like a ray of sunshine at home.” 

“What an original woman Mrs. Duffle must be,” 
murmured Val. 

“I always think there must be something remarkable 
about any girl, if her own nearest relations speak well 
of her,” Quentillian said in detached accents. 

Adrian looked suspiciously at his audience. 

“You'd like Olga awfully,” he repeated rather pa- 
thetically. ‘And I can tell you this, Val, she’d give 
you and Flossie no end of hints about clothes and 
things. She dresses better than any girl I’ve ever seen.” 

Valeria was roused to no display of enthusiasm by 
this culminating claim of Miss Duffle on her regard. 

“What sort of age is she?” 

“She looks about eighteen, but I believe she’s 
twenty-four and a bit,” said Adrian with some pre- 
cision. “She plays tennis, too, rippingly. You'd better 
ask the Admastons to bring her over, I can tell you. 
It isn’t everyone who gets the chance of playing with 
a girl like that.” 

“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val con- 
sidered. “I shall only ask one Admaston girl; we've 
too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and this Olga 
person, and Lucilla and I—Flossie won’t play if any- 
body very good is there. That’s four, and then you 
and Owen and Mr. Clover—and we could have Cap- 
tain Cuscaden. I'll talk to Lucilla about it, if you like, 
Adrian.” 

“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, 
really, that I suggested it,’ Adrian explained. 

His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern 


46 THE OPTIMIST 


stamped upon the leather arm of his chair, and he 
contemplated it earnestly with his head upon one side, 
even murmuring a sub-audible—‘One—two—three— 
and a corner’’—before clearing his throat. 


“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the 
idea that I’m wildly keen on this tennis stunt for my 
own amusement. In fact, | may say I’ve been a bit 
off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordi- 
narily good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, 
ina way. But I thought you girls might like to know 
Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice friend 
for you to have, you know.” 


There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of 
Adrian’s philanthropic suggestions that might have 
been partly accountable for the tolerance with which 
his sister received them. 

Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with 
a certain hint of apology: 


“We've spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember 
what a dear little boy he was?” 


Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome 
little boy Adrian had been, but this recollection, as so 
many others connected with the house of Morchard, 
he did not insist upon. 


“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, 
but I hope she’s a nice girl. You know how very 
particular Father is, and I think he’s especially sensitive 
where Adrian is concerned.” 


“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined 
to take Adrian’s affairs too seriously,” Quentillian sug- 
gested, with great moderation. “Adrian, after all, is 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 47 


very young, isn’t he, both in years and in character, 
in spite of his soldiering?”’ 

“T suppose he is. He’s very susceptible, too. I 
sometimes think that Father doesn’t altogether make 
allowance for that.” 

Even the very negative criticism implied was so con- 
trary to the spirit of the house that it gave Quentillian 
the agreeable illusion of partnering Valeria in a mild 
domestic conspiracy, and pleased him inordinately. 

The sense of conspiracy was deepened on the day of 
the tennis party, when a Miss Admaston, gawky and 
unimpressive, duly escorted Miss Olga Duffle to St. 
Gwenllian. 

She was less pretty, and possessed of more person- 
ality, than Quentillian had expected. Very small and 
slight, her face was of the squirrel type, her eyes very 
large and dark, her black crépe hair brushed childishly 
away from her little round forehead, her nose unmis- 
takably retroussé. Two very white front teeth were 
just visible, resting upon an habitually indrawn under- 
lip. 

Quentillian, quite irrationally, immediately felt cer- 
tain that she spoke with a lisp. She did not, but she 
certainly pronounced the name of Captain George Cus- 
caden, with whom she appeared to be upon intimate 
terms, as though it were spelt “Dzorze.”’ 

She also called Adrian by his first name, but gave 
no other startling signs of modernity. Indeed, a very 
pretty, and most unmodern, deference marked her 
manner towards Canon Morchard. 

“Father likes her,’ Valeria murmured to Quen- 
tillian, who was more concerned with her charming 


48 THE OPTIMIST 


air of imparting to him a secret than with Miss Duffle’s 
conquest of the Canon. 

It was only at tea-time that the Canon joined the 
tennis party. Immediately afterwards he made courte- 
ous apologies and returned to the house. 


It was undeniable that the absence of the Canon 
caused the conversation, which had circled uneasily 
round cathedral subjects, to lapse into triviality. The 
super-critical Quentillian could not decide which form 
of social intercourse he found least to his taste. 

“Jam?” said Adrian. 

The Canon had said, a few minutes earlier: 

“You must try some of our strawberry jam, Miss 
Duffle. My daughter Flora is responsible for it, I 
believe. Lucilla there is our housekeeper, but I am 
given to understand that her younger sisters are al- 
lowed to try experiments. I will not quote: Fiat 
experimentum.”” 

“Jam?” repeated Adrian. 

“Oh, there’s a wasp in the jam! Oh, save me!” 

Olga laughed as she uttered little cries of alarm, and 
her laughter really suggested the adjective “merry.” 

“Save the women and children!” 


There was much ineffectual slapping of teaspoons 
against the air, the tablecloth, the jam pot, and many 
exclamations. 

“Yonder he goes! Passed to you for necessary ac- 
tion, Miss Admaston!” 

“Be a man, Cuscaden; he’s right under your nose.” 

“Dzorze, do be careful—you’ll get stung!’ Olga 
cried across the table. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 49 


Captain Cuscaden neatly captured the wasp beneath 
an empty plate. 

“That’s got him. He'll never lift up his head again.” 

“Oh, then may I have my jam?” 

Olga, with her head on one side, might have been 
imitating a little girl, but Quentillian could not decide 
whether or no the imitation was an unconscious one. 

“The wasp has eaten all the jam,” Adrian rejoined 
in the same tone as Olga’s. 

“Oh! he hasn’t eaten all of it.” 

“No, he hasn’t eaten it all.” 

“Oh! the wasp didn’t eat all the jam, did he?” 

“Not quite all.” 

“There are still a few spoonfuls left that the wasp 
didn’t eat, Miss Duffle.” 

Neither Olga, Adrian, Captain Cuscaden, Flora nor 
Miss Admaston appeared to regard themselves as being 
amongst the extremest examples of brainless fatuity 
produced by a fatuous century. Yet thus it was that 
Owen Quentillian was regarding them, whilst at the 
same time another section of his brain passionlessly 
registered the conviction that his nerves were still on 
edge and his tendency to irrational irritability passing 
almost beyond his own control. 

After tea he remained idly in a long chair beside 
Valeria, while they watched Olga’s little nimble figure 
on the tennis court, where Adrian was her partner. 
Lucilla played against them with George Cuscaden, and 
Olga several times called out gaily: “Dzorze, I hate 
you!” 

When Lucilla sent an unplayable stroke across the 
net, she only cried: “Oh, well played!” 


50 THE OP LIMISTE 


“T don’t like her: voice, do you?” Val murmured 
confidentially. 

“Hideous,” said Quentillian, briefly and candidly. 

“T wonder if Adrian thinks he’s in earnest. Of 
course, I don’t suppose she’d look at him. And of 
course he couldn’t think of marrying anybody for ages. 
He’s too young, and he’d have to get a job.” 


“He'll have to do that anyway, won’t he? He says 
he doesn’t dislike the idea of business, and I could give 
him an introduction to a man who might be useful.” 


“Tt’s very kind of you. I know Father wants to get 
him settled. Dear Father, he was so disappointed that 
Adrian isn’t going into the Church after all, and he’s 
taken it so beautifully.” 

Quentillian regarded the Canon’s disappointment 
with so much more astonishment than sympathy that 
he wished only to avoid a discussion on the beauty of 
its manifestation. 

“Curiously enough, I have a living in my gift, be- 
longing to my very small property at Stear. The old 
man there wishes to retire, and I want to consult your 
father as to a new appointment. No one could be less 
fitted than myself,’ said Quentillian with an emphasis 
not altogether devoid of satisfaction, “to nominate a 
candidate for that sort of thing.’ 

Val looked at him with all her peculiar directness 
of gaze. 

“Sometimes you talk as though you rather despised 
the Church,” she said bluntly. 

There was a pause. 

“If I have given you such an impression, I must 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 51 


apologize. It was most discourteous of me,” said 
Quentillian stiffly. 


He was fully prepared to acknowledge and to defend 
his own purely rationalistic views, but the implication 
of a lack of taste in his behaviour as guest in an ortho- 
dox household offended him. 


“T didn’t mean that,” said Val, calmly and gravely. 
“IT know that a great many very clever people are not 
believers in the sense that my father is one, for in- 
stance; but they do respect the Christian ideal, all the 
same. I only wondered whether you were one of them. 
Do you mind my talking like this?” 

The relentless voice of Quentillian’s inner monitor 
assured him that he was, on the contrary, ready to 
welcome any intimate discussion of himself and his 
views, on whatever subject. 

Val looked at him expectantly. 

“Where I differ from, for instance, your father, is 
in separating Christian morality from what might be 
called the miraculous element of Christianity. Frankly, 
I can’t accept the latter.”’ 


“You don’t believe in the divinity of Christ?” 

Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quen- 
tillian replied only by a gesture. Val kept silence, and 
presently he glanced at her face and saw that tears 
stood in her eyes. 

He was half touched and half impatient. 

“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new 
one to you. You must know that the trend of modern 
thought is all very much in that direction.” 

“IT suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never 


52 WHE OR TINS et 


come very near me before. Father has sheltered us 
from everything, in the most beautiful way.” 

She spoke very simply and sincerely. 

The time-honoured cliché as to never wishing to de- 
prive anyone of his or her faith—Valeria least of all— 
hung unspoken on his lips. 

If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian 
was beginning to dream should come to pass between 
them, he was quite clearly and definitely convinced that 
Valeria’s early beliefs must go. 

“Have you really never felt any doubt at all—any 
inclination to question?” 

Valeria looked troubled. 

“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. 
One doesn’t, you know, brought up as we were.” 

Her eyes were full of thought. 

“Tell me,” said Quentillian gently, after a silence. 

“T was hoping,” said Val, with innocent eyes turned 
full upon him, “that Father would never know about 
you. It would make him so unhappy.” 


(iv) 


VAL, in accordance with time-honoured tradition, 
nightly brushed out her long brown hair in her sister 
Flora’s bedroom. 

They talked desultorily. 

“Choir practice tomorrow. I wish we could have 
Plain Chant instead of those things. . . .” 

“Father doesn’t care for Plain Chant.” 

“I know.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 53 


“Give me a piece of ribbon, Flossie. I’ve lost all 
mine.”’ 

“Val—here, will blue do?—Val, do you think Owen 
is falling in love with you?” 

“T don’t know. Well, to be honest, I think he is.” 

HOL.do\l:> 

“That’s Lucilla going up to bed. How early they 
are tonight.” 

They heard the Canon’s voice upon the stairs out- 
side. 

“Good-night to you, my dear daughter. May God 
have you in His keeping!’ 

Then came a gentle tap upon the bedroom door. 

“Not too prolonged a conference, little girls! I 
have sent Lucilla to seek her bed.” 

“Good-night, father,” they chorused. 

“Good-night to you, my dear children. Good-night, 
and may God bless you.” 

“Father would be pleased.”’ 

Flora reverted, unmistakably, to the topic of Owen 
Quentillian. 

“T suppose so,” said Val doubtfully. 

“But you know he would! He is delighted with 
Owen, and it would be so close to us—only an hour’s 
journey. I think it would be very nice, Val,” said 
Flora wistfully, “and it’s time one of us got married. 
Lucilla won’t, now, and nobody ever asks me, so it had 
better be you.” 

They both laughed. 

“Nobody has ever asked me, except that curate we 
had before Mr. Clover, and I always thought he was 
more or less weak-minded,” Valeria remarked candidly. 


54 THE OPTIMIST 


“They may not have asked you, but they’ve wanted 
to,” said Flora shrewdly. ‘Don’t answer if you'd 
rather not, but didn’t Captain Cuscaden ever . . . ?” 

Val crimsoned suddenly. 

“No. That was all nonsense. I believe he’s in love 
with that Olga girl.” 

“After you? Oh, Val?!’ 

“I don’t suppose it was ever me at all,” said Val 
with averted head. “I can’t think why we’ve ever 
imagined such nonsense. Anyway, it’s all over now, 
and J—I think I rather hate him, now.” 

“Oh!” Flora’s tone was both highly dissatisfied and 
rather incredulous. 

“One can’t hate a person and—and like them, at 
one and the same time,” Valeria exclaimed, with all 
the vehemence of those who affirm that of which they 
are not convinced. 

“T suppose not. See if you can untie me, Val—lI’ve 
got into a knot.” 

There was silence, and then Valeria, without looking 
at her sister, suddenly said: 

“Sometimes I wish we’d been brought up more like 
other people, Flossie. I know Father’s care for us has 
been beautiful—dear Father !—but somehow the girls 
I was with in France seemed more alive, in a way. 
They knew about things. . . .”’ 

“TIsn’t that rather like Eve wanting the knowledge 
of good and evil? Father always says that one should 
only seek the beautiful side—‘whatsoever things are 
pure, whatsoever things are holy,’ like St. Paul says.” 

“Owen wouldn’t agree to that. He believes that one 
ought to know everything, good and bad alike.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 55 


“Perhaps it’s different for a man.” 
“Perhaps. We don’t know much about men, after 
all, do we, Flossie?” 


Flossie raised her eyebrows with an indescribable 
effect of fastidious distaste, and closed her lips. 


“T don’t think I want to, particularly. Father is the 
most wonderful man that anyone could ever want to 
know, I should imagine.” 


“Oh, yes,” said Valeria. 

She was perfectly conscious of speaking anything 
but whole-heartedly. 

She did indeed think her father wonderful, but she 
could not, like Flora, feel herself to be forever satis- 
fied by the contemplation of parental wonderfulness. 


y 


“You're different since you came back from France, 
Val. I think you'd better marry Owen,” said Flora 
calmly. 

“He hasn’t asked me, yet.” 

There was a sound from the floor below. 

“That was Father! He hates us to sit up late. I'd 
better go before he comes up again. Good-night, 
Flossie.” 

“Good-night.” 

Flora looked at her sister, and once more murmured: 
“Father would like it, you know,” half pleadingly and 
half as though in rebuke. 

“Father doesn’t know everything about Owen. He 
has been very much affected by the tone of the day, 
Beerather callsit, ‘His faith ... 2” 

“Oh, Val! Isn’t that one reason the more? You 
might do so much to help him.” 


56 EEO RT IMIS 


Flora spoke with humourless and absolute earnest- 
ness. 

“Valeria! 

The Canon’s voice, subdued but distinct, came to 
them from without. 


“My dear, go to your room. This is not right. You 
are acting in defiance of my known wishes, although, 
no doubt, thoughtlessly. Bid your sister good-night 
and go.” 


Val did not even wait to carry out the first half of 
the Canon’s injunction. She caught up her brush and 
comb and left the room. 


“Are my wishes so little to you, Valeria?” said her 
father, standing on the stairs. “It costs so small an 
act of self-sacrifice to be faithful in that which is 
least !’’ 

“T’m sorry, Father. We both forgot the time.” 


“Thoughtless Valeria! Are you always to be my 
madcap daughter ?” 


His tone was very fond, and he kissed her and 
blessed her once more. 
Valeria went to her own room. 


She sat upon the side of her bed and cried a little. 

Everything seemed to be vaguely disappointing and 
unsatisfactory. What if Owen Quentillian was in love 
with her? He was very clever, and Val was tired of 
cleverness. Father was clever—even Flora, in her 
austere, musical way, was clever. Val supposed grimly 
that she herself must be clever, if imposed intellectual 
interests, a wide range of reading, a habit of abstract 
discussion, could make her so. Nevertheless she was 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 57 


guiltily conscious of desires within herself other than 
purely academic ones. 

Flora was right. Those six months in France had 
made her different. 

She had worked in a canteen, where the preoccupa- 
tion of everyone had been the procuring and dispensing 
of primitive things—food, and drink, and warmth. 
Women had worked with their hands for men who 
had been fighting, and were going to fight again. 

Valeria had been the quickest worker there, one of 
the most efficient. The manual work, the close contact 
with material things, had satisfied some craving within 
herself of which she had not before been actively con- 
scious. 

She had learnt to cook and had become proficient 
with astonishing ease. Scrambled eggs interested her 
more than herbaceous borders, more than choir prac- 
tises, more, to her own surprise and shame, than eve- 
ning readings-aloud at home. 

The canteen jokes, elementary, beer-and-tobacco- 
flavoured, had amused her whole-heartedly. She had 
laughed, foolishly and mirthfully, for sheer enjoyment, 
knowing all the time that, judged by the criterion of 
St. Gwenllian, the jests were pointless, the wit unde- 
serving of the name. 

Very soon she had ceased to dwell upon any remem- 
brance of the criterion of St. Gwenllian. She had let 
herself go. 

There had been brief, giggling intimacies with girls 
and young women whom Valeria could certainly not 
visualize as intimates in her own home, allusions and 
catchwords shared with the men or the orderlies, child- 


58 THE OPLTIMIa 


ish, undignified escapades which she was aware that 
the Canon would have regarded and apostrophised as 
vulgar. Those days now seemed like a dream. 

Even the girl with whom she had shared a room 
for six months no longer wrote to her. 

She, the bobbed-haired, twenty-two-year-old Pollie 
Gordon, had had love-affairs. Valeria remembered 
certain confidences made by Pollie, and still blushed. 
Pollie had been strangely outspoken, to Miss Mor- 
chard’s way of thinking, but she had been interesting— 
revealing even. 

Valeria ruefully realized perfectly that Pollie Gor- 
don, whether one’s taste approved of her or not, had 
lived every moment of her short life to the full. She 
was acutely aware of contrast. 

“And I’m twenty-seven!” thought Val. “I’d better 
go and be a cook somewhere. If only I could! Or 
marry Owen—supposing he asks me. Anyway, one 
might have children.” 

A humourous wonder crossed her mind as to her 
ability to cope with the intelligent, eclectically-minded 
children that Owen Quentillian might be expected to 
father. 

“It’s a pity he isn’t poor. I believe I should be better 
as a poor man’s wife, having to do everything for him, 
and for the babies, if there were babies. . . . The 
Colonies, for instance. . . .” 

Although she was alone, Val coloured again and 
tears stood in her eyes. 

“What a fool I am!” 

It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her 
to seek the oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollec- 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 59 


tion of the fidelity in that which is least, enjoined upon 
her by her father. 

For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gar- 
dening and tennis playing. She also, on two occasions, 
fetched volumes of Lamartine and asked her father to 
read aloud after dinner. 

Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and 
made her sleep soundly. 

It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never 
made personal remarks, said to her: 

“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You 
don’t look well.” 

“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather 
more to do, sometimes.” 

Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less inti- 
mate with her than with Flora. No one, in fact, was 
intimate with Lucilla. She spoke seldom, and almost 
always impersonally. At least, one knew that she 
was discreet... . 

Val, on impulse, spoke. 

“Do you suppose—don’t be horrified, Lucilla—do 
you suppose Father would ever think of letting me go 
away and work?” 

Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified. 

She appeared to weigh her answer before she replied. 

“T don’t think it would occur to him, of his own 
accord.” 

“Oh, no. But if one asked him? Would it make 
him dreadfully unhappy?” 

“Yes,” said Lucilla matter-of-factly. 

Valeria, disappointed and rather angry, shrugged 
her shoulders. 


60. THE OPTIMIST 


“Then, of course, that puts an end to the whole 
thing.”’ 

Lucilla finished stamping a small pile of the Canon’s 
letters, laid them on the table, and placed a paper- 
weight upon the heap before turning round to face her 
sister. 

“But why, Val?” 

“Why what?” 

“Why need it put an end to the whole thing? You 
know as well as I do that it would make Father un- 
happy for any one of us to suggest leaving home. But 
if you really mean to do it, you must make up your 
mind to his being unhappy about it.” 

“Lucilla!” 

Lucilla did not elaborate her astounding theses, but 
her gaze, sustained and level, met Valeria’s astonished 
eyes calmly. 

“You don’t suppose I’m as hideously selfish as that, 
do you?” 

“T don’t know what you are. But you’ve a right to 
your own life.” 

“Not at anyone else’s expense.” 

Lucilla began to stamp postcards. 

“Lucilla, you didn’t mean that, did you?” 

NOP course didi Valy 

“That I should hurt Father, and go away just to 
satisfy my own restlessness, knowing that he disap- 
proved and was unhappy? I should never know a 
moment’s peace again.” 

“Well, if you feel like that, I suppose you won’t 
do it.” 

“Wouldn’t you feel like that, in my place?” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 61 


“No, I shouldn’t; but that’s neither here nor there. 
It’s for you to decide whether a practical consideration 
or a sentimental one weighs most in your own particu- 
lar case.”’ 

“Sentimental ?”’ 

Val’s indignant tone gave the word its least agree- 
able meaning. 

“It is a question of sentiment, isn’t it? Father likes 
to have you at home, but he’s not dependent upon you 
in any way.” 

“But wouldn’t he say that my place was at home— 
that it was only restlessness and love of independence 

. . 2” Valeria stammered. 

She suddenly felt very young beneath the remote, 
passionless gaze of her sister. For the first time in 
her life she saw Lucilla as a human being and not as 
an elder sister, and she was struck with Lucilla’s 
strange effect of spiritual aloofness. It would be very 
easy to speak freely to anyone so impersonal as Lucilla. 

“It’s ever since I got back from France,” said Val 
suddenly. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, 
exactly, but Pve . . . wanted things. I’ve wanted 
to work quite hard, at things like cooking, or sweep- 
ing—and I’ve been sick of books, and music, and 
botany. I don’t feel any of it is one scrap worth while. 
And, oh, Lucilla, it’s such nonsense, because no one 
wants me to cook or sweep, so I’m just ‘seeking voca- 
tions to which I am not called,’ as Father always says. 
Perhaps it’s just that I want change.”’ 

Lucilla was silent. 

“Do say what you think,’ Val besought her with 
some impatience. 


62 DHE ORD TVS 


“T will if you like, but it isn’t really what I think, 
or what Father thinks, that matters. It’s what you 
think yourself.” 

Valeria stamped her foot. 

“I don’t know what I think.” 

“Better go away,” Lucilla then said briefly. 

“Work?” 

“Yes, if that’s what you feel like. Of course, mar- 
riage would be better.” 

Cbuciliayy 

“You asked me to say what I thought,” her sister 
pointed out. 

“T suppose you mean Owen Quentillian,”’ Val said 
at last. “But even if I did that—and he hasn’t asked 
me to, so far—it would only mean just the same sort 
of thing, only in another house. There'd be servants 
to do the real work, and a gardener to do the garden, 
and a nurse for the babies, if there were babies. Owen 
talks about farming Stear, but he’d do it all out of 
books, I feel certain. We should be frightfully— 
frightfully civilized.” 

“Owen is frightfully civilized.” 

“Well, I don’t think I am,” said Val contentiously. 

“Lucilla, do you like Owen?” 

“Yes. I’m very sorry for him, too.” 

“Why?” Valeria could not believe that Owen would 
be in the least grateful for Lucilla’s sorrow. It might 
even be difficult to induce him to believe that anyone 
could be sufficiently officious to indulge in such an 
emotion on his behalf. 

“I think his shell-shock has affected him much more 
than he realizes,” Lucilla said. “I think his nerves are 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 63 


on edge, very often. He'd be a difficult person to live 
with, Val.” 

Valeria remained thoughtful. 

She knew that Lucilla’s judgments, if rarely put into 
words, were extraordinarily clear-cut and definite, and 
as such they carried conviction to her own intuitive, 
emotional impulses of like and dislike. 


“Father likes Owen so much. Wouldn’t he be 
pleased if one ever did?” Val said elliptically. 

“Very pleased, I should think.” 

“Of course, that isn’t really a reason for doing it.” 

Lucilla apparently found the wisdom of her sister’s 
observation too obvious for reply. 

“Not the only reason, anyway.” 

Lucilla’s silence was again an assent. 

“Gossiping in the morning, my daughters?” 

The Canon’s deep, pleasant voice preceded him as 
he paused outside the open window. 


“Ts that as it should be? Lucilla, my dear love, at 
your desk again? You look pale—you should be in 
the open air. Is not the day a glorious one? When 
this world about us is so unutterably fair, does it not 
make one think of ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, 
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con- 
ceive, what things He hath prepared for them that 
love him’ ?” 

The Canon’s uplifted gaze was as joyful as it was 
earnest. 

“Heaven seems very near, on such a day,” he said 
softly. 

Val, always outspoken, and struggling with the un- 


64 DHE OP TIiMIsSd 


ease of her own discontent, joined him at the window 
and said wistfully: 

“T can’t feel it like you do, Father. I wish I could.” 

“Little Valeria! It will come, my dear; it will all 
come. These things become more real and vivid to us 
as life goes on. So many of those I love have gone 
to swell the ranks of the Church Triumphant, now— 
such a goodly company of friends! How can I feel it 
to be a strange or far-away country, when your mother 
awaits me there, and my own dear father and mother, 
and such a host of friends? What a meeting that will 
be, with no shadow of parting any more!” 

Valeria was conscious of foolish, utterly unexplained 
tears, rising to her throat at the tender, trustful voice 
in which her father spoke. 

How she loved him! Never could she do anything 
that would hurt or disappoint him. The resolution, 
impulsive and emotional, gave her a certain sense of 
stability, welcome after all her chaotic self-questionings 
and contradictory determinations. 

“Will you give Owen and myself the pleasure of 
your company this afternoon, Valeria? We meditate 
an expedition to Stear—an expedition to Stear.” 

She said that she would go with them. 

None of the Canon’s children had ever refused an 
invitation to go out with the Canon since the days 
when the Sunday afternoons of their childhood had 
been marked by the recurrent honour of a walk with 
Father. An honour and a pleasure, even if rather a 
breathless one, and one that moreover was occasionally 
liable to end in shattering disaster, as when Flora had 
been sent home in disgrace by herself for the mis- 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 65 


guided sense of humour that had led her, aged five, 
to put out her tongue at the curate. Or that other 
unforgettable episode when Val herself, teased by the 
boys, had vigorously boxed Adrian’s ears. 

She smiled as she recollected it, and wondered if 
Owen remembered too, and yet there was a sort of 
disloyalty in recalling the affair too closely. 

The Canon had been so very angry! His anger, as 
intense as it was memorable, had been succeeded by 
such a prolonged period of the blackest depression! 

Val realized thankfully that it was a long time since 
any of them had seen the Canon angry. 

She turned aimlessly down the garden. 


The Canon had already gone indoors. He was never 
other than occupied, and Valeria had never seen him 
impatient of an interruption. 


“The man who wants me is the man I want,” the 
Canon sometimes quoted, with his wonderfully attrac- 
tive smile. 

“Father 1s wonderful. Never could I disappoint or 
grieve him,” thought Val vehemently. 

She suddenly wheeled round and returned to the 
open window, determined that Lucilla, the astonishing 
Lucilla, should know of her resolution. 

“You know what we were talking about just now?” 
she demanded abruptly. 

Lucilla looked up. 

“Tye quite made up my mind that your advice was 
wrong,” said Val firmly. “I know you said what you 
thought was best, and it’s nice of you to want me to 
be independent, but, after all, one’s duty comes first. 


66 PH ETOP NES 


I don’t believe it’s my duty to dash away from home 
and make Father unhappy.” 

Lucilla looked down again. 

“Of course, if anything happened of itself to make 
me leave home, it would be quite different. If I mar- 
ried, or anything like that. But just to go away for 
a purely selfish whim #1 

She paused expressively. 

“T couldn’t do it, you know.” 





“Well—” Lucilla’s tone conceded, apparently, that 
Val had every right to judge for herself. Further than 
that, it did not go. 

“Lucilla, if you really think like that, about living 
one’s own life, and I suppose from the aggravating 
way in which you won’t say anything, that you do— 
why don’t you do it yourself?” 


39 


“But I haven’t any wish to, 
surprised. 


said Lucilla, looking 


“Haven’t you ever had any wish to?” 

“Oh, yes, once. But not now.” 

“Then why didn’t you?’ Val pursued desperately. 
She felt as though she was coming really to know 
her sister for the first time. 

“T suppose because I thought, like you, that it 
wouldn’t do to leave Father.” 

“But you don’t think that any more?” 

Ne! 

“Did anyone advise you?” 

“Oh, no. There wasn’t anything to advise about. 
One has to think things out for oneself, after all.” 

“Oh!” Val was conscious of her own perpetual 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 67 


craving for approval from everyone, for any course 
that she might adopt. 

“Did you ever ask anyone's advice, Lucilla?” 

“T don’t think so. If I did, it would be because I 
meant to take it, and I can’t imagine wanting to let 
anyone else decide things for me. Just talking about 
one’s own affairs isn’t taking advice, though people 
like to call it so.” 

“T think it’s a very good thing you’re not married,” 
said Val crossly. ‘‘You’re too superior.”’ 

“Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me,” 
said Miss Morchard with calm. 


Valeria, in spite of her momentary elevation of 
spirits in resolving never to grieve her father, prepared 
for the visit to Stear in a discontented frame of mind. 

At the last moment Adrian suddenly announced a 
wish to accompany them. 


99 


“My dear! But of course—”’ The Canon’s pleas- 
ure was very evident. “Owen, you will welcome this 
lad of mine as part of our little excursion, eh? Why 
not make one of the old-time family parties? Why 
not let us all go and explore this future home of 
Owen’s? It’s not very often that I have a free after- 
noon nowadays—and to have all my dear ones to make 
holiday with me would be indeed a rare joy.” 

He looked round him expectantly. 

“The caretaker won’t be able to manage tea for so 
many,” said Lucilla, looking at Quentillian. 

“There speaks my practical housekeeper ! 


For though on pleasure she was bent, 
She had a frugal mind. 


68 THE OPTIMIST 


“Eh, Lucilla? Could you not contrive a basket for 
us, my dear, picnic fashion? Come, come, let’s have 
an impromptu picnic. What say you, young people?” 

They said what the Canon wanted them to say. No 
one, Val felt, could have done otherwise, in the face 
of his eagerness. She was partly disappointed, and 
partly relieved. There had been a certain romance in 
going with Owen to see Owen’s home, with the barely 
acknowledged wonder whether it might not one day 
also be hers. 

But there was no hint of romance in the solidly 
packed basket presently produced by Lucilla, and re- 
luctantly carried by Adrian, nor in Flora’s tardiness 
that nearly caused them to miss the train, nor in her 
Father’s gentle, humourously worded rebuke to her. 


(v) 


Ir Valeria was slightly discomposed by the tribal 
nature of the expedition to Stear, Quentillian was seri- 
ously annoyed by it. He had figured to himself a 
grave and gentle readjustment of values, when he 
should see the place that he had known since boyhood 
transformed into a setting for the figure of Valeria. 

He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in 
love, but he had made up his mind that he greatly 
wished to marry Valeria. 

A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether 
Valeria would wish to marry him. 

Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the re- 
pairs were even less advanced than Quentillian had 
expected them to be. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 69 


He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and 
shuddered involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the 
lonely prospect. 


Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid 
of his own company, and the knowledge was peculiarly 
galling to him. 

“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, 
Owen,” said the Canon genially. 

“You are optimistic, sir,’ said Quentillian rather 
dryly. “It will be months before these men are out 
of the place.” 

“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested. 

“TI believe I should.” 


“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his 
present quarters, if he is happy with us, as I trust he 
is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very welcome at St. 
Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared 
for you.” 


The Canon’s ready hand sought Quentillian’s arm. 

Owen glanced at Lucilla half apologetically, but her 
gaze, impervious to subtleties, and mildly cheerful, met 
his very readily. 

“Please stay on with us, if you should care to.” 

“Thank you,” said Quentillian non-committally. 


Later, at the Canon’s suggestion, he took them to 
visit the church. 

“You will one day have the responsibility of finding 
a new shepherd for the flock here, I understand, 
Owen.” 

“T shall hope for some advice from you, sir.” 

“Aye, indeed? It’s a very good living, is it not? 


70 at EO Bl MS 


Though that is very far from being the first considera- 
tion—very far, indeed.” 

“What's it worth?” Adrian inquired. 

“I believe it’s considered worth about £700 a year.” 

‘‘A job for a married man,” said Adrian casually. 

An involuntary flash of amused comprehension 
passed between Quentillian and Valeria. He under- 
stood it to be in reference to this when she said to 
him in a low voice on leaving the church: 

“T don’t think Olga Duffle would make a clergyman’s 
wife, do you?” 

“T should doubt it.” 

“But Adrian couldn’t really be thinking of it.” 

“T thought he’d decided against the Church.” 

“So he has. I think it was one of the greatest dis- 
appointments Father has ever had.”’ 

“Your father would only have wished it if Adrian 
had wished it.”’ 

“Oh, yes,” said Val emphatically. ‘Naturally, he 
looks upon it as a question of vocation. Father is the 
last person to ignore that.” 

She hesitated, and then said: “Owen, do you believe 
that everyone has a vocation?” 

The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the 
perplexities of a bygone age, nearly made him laugh, 
but his amusement was wholly tender. 

“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from 
Heaven for each one of us,” he admitted. “You know, 
I never can believe that Heaven takes that acute per- 
sonal interest in individuals that religious people always 
emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, 
of course, there are certain lines of development is 





VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 71 


“T think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to 
feel I had a definite job in life, that no one but myself 
could do. I feel so—indefinite.”’ 


“T believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” 
Owen replied in measured accents. 


“T don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collec- 
tion, Owen.”’ 

“T know you don’t. The sales of work and the 
collections were never a means of self-expression, were 
they?” 

“They did stand for something, though.” 

“For your wish to please somebody else?’ 

“The wish is still there, Owen.” 


“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.” 
He was half-laughing, but the flushed face that she 
turned towards him was altogether earnest. 


“Don’t think me arrogant, Val, but I do so wish I 
could make you see it as I do. Don’t you see that the 
Christian ideal of self-sacrifice was only the swing 
of the pendulum, from the brutal old days when men 
rejoiced in seeing their fellow-creatures tortured and 
killed? Feelings had to be developed, and so the 
Sermon on the Mount was preached. The pendulum 
has swung too far the other way now—charity has 
come to mean self-advertisement or sentimentality.” 

Quentillian, deeply interested in his own exposition 
of views that were by no means new to him, was 
brought up short by a call from behind him. 

“Hi, Owen! Are you walking fora wager? I want 
to ask you something.” 

Quentillian, not at all disposed to welcome Adrian 


72 THEO Bi Mise: 


and his interrogations, was obliged to slacken his steps 
as Valeria did hers. 


Adrian was swishing at the long grasses on either 
side of the road with a slender length of ash. 

“Look here, old man, have you got anybody in your 
eye for that living?” 

Adrian’s head was studiously turned towards his 
depredations with the ash-stick. 


‘Because if you haven’t—not that it matters to me, 
particularly, you understand, but I’ve got a friend, 
who might be the man you want.” 

“Who is he?” 

“I should have to sound him first,” Adrian explained. 
“I suppose you’d want a youngish fellow and—and 
I suppose you’d rather he was married?” 

“Not in the least.” 

Adrian looked disturbed. 

“T thought a parson’s wife was useful in a large, 
straggling sort of place like this. Not that it matters 
to me.” 

“Ts your friend married, Adrian?” Val enquired. 

Quentillian could not decide whether the simplicity 
of her manner was ironical or no. 

“He isn’t married at present. I think he’s engaged. 
You see, a living like this would justify a man in get- 
ting married, wouldn't it?” 

“Tt would depend on the sort of person he wished 
to marry.” 

“Supposing she had a little money of her own?” 

“The sort of girls who marry clergymen never do 
have money of their own,”’ said Quentillian, firmly. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 73 


On this discouraging pronouncement, they were re- 
joined by the rest of the party. 

Nevertheless Valeria contrived to enquire of Quen- 
tillian, in a disturbed murmur: 

“What can Adrian be thinking of ?” 

It was not at all difficult to guess what Adrian could 
be thinking of, and became still less so as the days 
slipped by and his infatuation for Miss Olga Duffle 
led to her inclusion in innumerable games of tennis 
and impromptu tea-parties at St. Gwenllian. 

“What can he see in her?” Valeria demanded, after 
the fashion of sisters. 

Quentillian was unable to provide any adequate ex- 
planation of the phenomenon, but he was fully prepared 
to discuss it, and prolong thereby the sense of intimacy 
with Valeria. 

It seemed to Quentillian that a new, slight, tinge 
of gravity shadowed Valeria’s frankness. 

With all the logic and consistency of most persons 
so situated, Quentillian alternately viewed this as being 
hopeful or unhopeful, in the extreme, for the fulfil- 
ment of his wishes. 

He was slightly amused at finding himself in the 
extremely conventional position in which he had so 
often viewed, with dispassionate distaste, the spectacle 
presented by other men, and this amusement was not 
without its share in determining him to submit his 
proposal to Valeria in writing. 

A tendency, real, or fancied by Quentillian’s self- 
consciousness, on the parts of Flora and Adrian at 
least, to vacate any room in which he and Valeria 
might be, upon excuses of a shadow-like transparency, 


74 THE OPTIMISE 


finally brought Quentillian to the point of leaving St. 
Gwenllian, under promise of an early return. 

“You must come back, to us, dear Owen—you must 
come back,” the Canon repeated. “I want many a talk 
with you yet, and Adrian here will miss the evening 
confabulations in the smoking-room—eh, Adrian? 
Stear will hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our 
advantage be it spoken, so you must make your home 
with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite freely, 
dear lad.”’ 

“Thank you very much.” 

Quentillian felt that he had already said these words 
all too often, and conscientiously sought to vary the 
formula. 

“Tt’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more 
than grateful. It’s been wonderful to get such a kind 
welcome after these years abroad.” 

“Ah, dear fellow!” 

The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm 
across the younger man’s shoulders. 

“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said. 

Owen suspected significance in the words, and then 
derided himself. 

Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it 
was with Valeria that Quentillian was concerned, and 
he could augur nothing from her frank and cordial 
regret at his departure. 

“IT shall write to you, Val.” 

“Yes, do. And Ill tell you what happens with 
Adrian and that Olga.” 

“T hope nothing will happen.” 

“Oh, no—but it’s amusing.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 75 


She did not look amused. Something of her ripe- 
apricot bloom had faded, and there were shadows be- 
neath her brown eyes. Before he left St. Gwenllian, 
Owen said rather earnestly to Lucilla that he thought 
Valeria looked tired. 

oo dol.’ 

“Ts she ill?” 

“T don’t think so. 

“T should hate to think of her being ill.”’ 

“T don’t think she’s ill, Owen.”’ 

Lucilla evidently accepted his solicitude as a natural 
thing. 

“T’ve always thought that Val needed a greater out- 
let for her energies than she gets here. She’s very 
strong, really, and she did splendidly in France when 
she was working so hard at her Canteen. I wish 
she could go away and work again.” 

miealivr 

“Don’t you think so yourself?” 

“Perhaps—if she wished it very much. There are 
other things besides work, though,” said Owen Quen- 
tillian. 

“Well—” Lucilla’s favourite monosyllable held, as 
usual, a sound of concession. 

“Couldn’t one do anything for her—take care of her, 
somehow ?” 

“T will order a cup of beef-tea for her at eleven 
o’clock,” said Lucilla with seriousness, but with amuse- 
ment lurking in her eyes. 

They parted upon a mutual smile of excellent under- 
standing. 


76 THE OPTIMIST 


Quentillian thought that he liked Lucilla, with her 
impersonal calm, and her unquestioning acceptances. 

He wrote to Valeria from London, letters that he felt 
to be self-conscious, and received uneloquent replies. 
He had left St. Gwenllian a fortnight when he finally 
composed an epistle that left him a littlk—a very little 
—less than profoundly dissatisfied with his own powers 
of composition. He received her reply by return of 
post. 

“Owen, dear, I’ve got your letter. I can’t answer 
it in the way I should like to, making you understand 
everything that I mean. But do understand first of 
all that your thinking of me like that makes me very 
proud, and I wish I was more worth it all. 

“T’m glad you loved some one else before, and thank 
you for telling me. The reason I’m glad is because 
I used to like some one very much myself once, but 
it wasn’t like yours, it was only my own foolishness, 
and never came to anything. But I think perhaps it’s 
prevented my falling really in love, because, dear Owen, 
I am not in love with you. If I married you, it would 
be because you are, as you say, very lonely, and be- 
cause I am very, very fond of you, and also perhaps, a 
little, because it would make Father so happy. But 
none of those reasons are the real, true reason for 
marrying, are they? 

“We have known one another so long, and under- 
stand one another. Can’t we discuss it honestly to- 
gether, before settling anything? Either way, we are 
always friends, so I will sign myself your friend. 

“VALERIA MORCHARD.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 77 


Quentillian read the letter with a strange mingling 
of disappointment, relief, and mortification. 

Nevertheless it was in all sincerity that he wrote 
to Val of his admiration for her candour. 

“You and I are moderns, my dear. Let us, as you 
wish, discuss the future impersonally, but let me first 
of all say that when—or if—ever you should come 
to the decision which I want you to come to, then so 
far as I am concerned, philosophical discussion will 
go for nothing. I shall wait for your sign, Val, and 
if it comes, there shall be no more pen and ink between 
us, but a meeting for which I long with all my heart.” 

“Academic,” said Owen’s inner monitor, relentless 
as ever. 

He posted his letter in spite of it. 

It was with relief, and yet with a happiness less 
defined than he had expected it to be, that Quentillian 
found himself engaged to Valeria. 

He regretted his own absence of ardour, and was 
all the time aware of a faint, lurking gratification at 
having so early outlived the illusions of passionate 
emotion. 

He returned to St. Gwenllian. 

This time it was Valeria who met him. Something 
in the simplicity with which she accepted their new 
relationship touched him profoundly, and rendered of 
no account his own temperamental subtleties. 

It was with a deepening sense of sincerity that Quen- 
tillian said to her: 

“You have made me very happy, dearest.’ ’ 

“T’m glad, Owen. I’m happy too.” 

Her hand lay trustfully in his. 


78 THE OP PTMIESG 


“They want to see you so much, at home, Owen. 
I’ve told them. They’re all so pleased.” 

It evidently added to Valeria’s content, that it should 
be so. 

“You know that Father has always really looked 
upon you as another son, even in the days when you 
and I got into trouble for playing at Greek sacrificial 
processions with the guinea pigs on silver salvers.”’ 

They laughed together at the recollection. 

The Canon had not been hard upon the classically- 
minded delinquents. 

Quentillian believed himself to have realized fully 
the adjuncts, necessary and fitting in the eyes of the 
Morchard family, but to himself distasteful in the 
extreme, of his engagement to Valeria. 

He was prepared for conventional congratulations, 
for the abhorrent necessity of discussing his personal 
affairs, for an emotional absence of reticence that would 
differ as widely from his own impersonal, dissecting- 
room outspokenness as would the Canon’s effusive 
periods from Quentillian’s cultivated terseness of ex- 
pression. 

Nevertheless, he was less well-armoured, or more 
severely tried, than he had expected to be. 

Canon Morchard seemed to shower welcome, bless- 
ings, congratulations upon him. He said: 

“Dear lad, you and I must have a long talk together, 
at no distant date.”’ 

They had many. 

It seemed to Quentillian that he saw more of the 
Canon than of Valeria, in the days that ensued. 

“Val, when will you marry me? I’m quite selfish 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 79 


enough to want you to myself,” Quentillian said to her 
with firmness after a week at St. Gwenllian that 
seemed to him to have been mainly differentiated from 
his last visit there by the increased number of one- 
sided talks with the Canon to which he had been sub- 
jected. 

Val said tentatively: “The end of January?” 

“Why not before Christmas? Stear should be quite 
ready for us by then.” 


It relieved him with a strange intensity to know 
that he would not, after all, go alone to Stear. 

Valeria looked at him, and although her voice when 
she spoke was serious, a certain mischievous amuse. 
ment lurked in her eyes. 

“Before Christmas, it’s Advent,” she said. 

“Advent?” 

“I don’t think Father would like my wedding to be 
during Advent, at all.” 

DrUSee. 

“Oh, don’t be vexed, Owen. It’s only a month’s dif- 
ference after all.” 

“Tt isn’t that,” began Quentillian candidly, and then 
shared in her slight, unoffended laughter at his lack 
of gallantry. 

“I only mean, my dear, that I don’t like to see you 
bound by that sort of convention. Do you really think 
it can make any difference if we’re married on one par- 
ticular date rather than another?” 

“I’m thinking entirely of Father,” gently said Val, 
thus altogether evading the real point at issue. 

Quentillian was again and again made aware of this 


80 THE OPTIMIST 


capacity in Val for the avoidance of any discussion 
between them on the subject of religion. 

It was as though the faint rebellion that he had 
discerned in her at her own way of life had been ex- 
tinguished by the mere prospect of its coming to an 
end. Nor, when he finally forced an issue, did Val 
appear to possess his own capacities for impartial, 
essentially impersonal, discussion. 

““Can’t we leave it alone, Owen? You told me what 
your views were—and you know what mine are. 
We’ve been honest with one another—isn’'t that all that 
matters?” 

“In a sense, of course it is. You don’t think that 
perhaps it’s a pity to know there’s one subject we must 
tacitly avoid—that we can’t discuss freely?” 

He spoke without emphasis of any kind. 

“Tt is a pity, of course,” said Val literally. “But how 
can we help it? I can hardly listen to you without dis- 
loyalty of the worst kind. If you look at it from my 
point of view for a moment, you do see that, don’t 
you, Owen?” 

“Yes, I suppose I do see that,” he said heavily. 

He felt strangely disappointed and disillusioned. 

“Do you wish me to say anything to your father 
about that?” 

Val blushed deeply, but spoke quite resolutely. 

“No, I don’t. I’ve thought it over, and I can’t see 
that it concerns anyone but you and me. Lucilla says 
so, too. I asked her what she thought. It’s not as 
though I were eighteen, and it’s not as though I didn’t 
trust you, absolutely, not to interfere with my beliefs, 
any more than I with your—unbeliefs.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 81 


Confronted with her grave trustfulness, no less than 
with the obvious justice of her words, Quentillian could 
only agree with her. 


His rather arrogant conviction of earlier days, that 
Val’s beliefs must go, gave place to an unescapable cer- 
tainty that they would not even be modified. Rather 
would Valeria, enforced by tradition and by the in- 
herited faith that was in her, expect with the course 
of years to influence her husband’s views. 


Owen felt strongly the hopelessness of such expec- 
tation, and still more strongly the inexpediency, not to 
say the impossibility, of urging that hopelessness upon 
Valeria. 

It was decided that the wedding should take place in 
January, and the engagement be made public just be- 
fore Christmas. 


“You do not want to let the world in upon your 
joy too soon, young people,” the Canon told them with 
a grave smile. 


Val’s answering smile acquiesced in the assumption, 
as indeed the smiles and silences, no less than the 
spoken words, of his entire family were always apt to 
acquiesce in any assumption made by Canon Morchard, 
whether the facts warranted such acquiescence or not. 


The days slipped by, very much as they had slipped 
by before Quentillian and Valeria had become engaged. 
If Quentillian had expected a greater difference, a more 
profound element, he was destined to be disappointed. 

Val was charming and—he would not have to face 
loneliness at Stear. 

Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though 


82 EEE VOR ENS. 


Valeria would not be alone in accomplishing the de- 
struction of the spirit of solitude at Stear. 

Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in- 
law, and said, with singlarly ill-chosen colloquialism : 

“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the 
governor about that living at Stear?” 

“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even re- 
signed.” 

“I suppose—ha-ha—you'll laugh—in fact I shouldn’t 
be surprised if you thought it dashed funny—it makes 
me smile myself, in a way—you'll roar when I tell you 
what I’m thinking of.” 

Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority 
of people thus apostrophised, and was aware that his 
melancholy was reflected on his face in a forbidding 
expression. 

Adrian had turned rather pale. 

“You know the old man’s always been desperately 
keen on my going into the Church? Well—I say, you 
can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t be offended 
—I’m not at all sure I shan’t do it.” 

Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in 
the prescribed orgy of merriment. 

“You coming into the family like this, with a good 
living going begging, makes it a pretty obvious move 
in a way, doesn’t it—and then it’d please the old man 
frightfully—and really there are precious few open- 
ings for a man who hasn’t been brought up to anything 
special, nowadays.” 

“Yes. And what is the real reason?” 

Adrian laughed uncomfortably. 

“Sherlock Holmes! Well, between ourselves, I don’t 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 83 


mind telling you that I want to see some prospect of 
being able to marry, and if I had a definite thing in 
view, like Stear, I might be able to bring it off.” 

“You can’t be ordained in five minutes. Don’t be 
absurd.” 

“T’ve got to wait, anyhow,” said Adrian gloomily. 
“She won't even be engaged, yet. I thought I might 
as well fill in the time at Cambridge or somewhere, 
if it’s going to lead to something. I’m quite willing to 
wait if I must, and of course I shall never change.”’ 

“It’s Miss Duffle, I suppose. I can’t say I should 
have thought she’d enjoy the life of a country parson’s 
wife.” 

“You haven’t the least idea of what she’s really 
like.” 

“Perhaps not.” Owen’s voice implied the contrary. 
“What about yourself? Do you really suppose you 
could stand it?” 

“Of course I could, if it meant her. My dear fellow, 
my mind’s absolutely made up, I may tell you, and has 
been for—for days. But, of course,’ he added in- 
genuously, “it does depend a good deal on whether 
you'll promise me Stear or not at the end of it all.” 

“What about your father?” 

“Oh, he’ll jump at it, of course. It’s been the one 
wish of his heart, all along,” said Adrian easily. 

Quentillian wondered how it was possible that any 
youth, brought up in the intellectual atmosphere of St. 
Gwenllian, could be so entirely devoid of insight. To 
his own way of thinking, it was utterly incredible that 
Canon Morchard, ardent Christian and idealist, should 
contemplate with any degree of equanimity, his son’s 


84 LHE OPTIMIST 


proposed flippant adoption of a vocation which he re- 
garded as sacred. 

Owen committed himself to no promises. 

“T should like to talk it over with Val.” 

“IT suppose if you must you must,” said Adrian, 
grudgingly. “But don’t let her tell anyone else.” 

Valeria’s views were not far removed from Quen- 
tillian’s own. 

It sometimes, indeed, seemed to Owen that the iden- 
tity of their points of view on every other subject only 
rendered more evident the deep gulf dividing them on 
the topic that Valeria had decreed should be a barred 
one—that of religion. 

Spoken, their very difference might have brought 
them closer together. Unspoken, it seemed to Owen 
to pervade all their intercourse since their engagement 
as it had never done before. 

(vi) 

Valeria had been engaged for nearly a month when 
she wrote a letter. 

“DEAR CAPTAIN CUSCADEN, 

“T thought I would like to tell you myself that I am 
engaged to be married. It is to Owen Quentillian, 
whom I have known all my life, almost, and we Rous 
to be married in January. 

“T hope you will have very good luck in Canada, and 
that you will sometimes let us know how you get on. 
We are expecting you on Saturday, to come and say 
goodbye. 

“Yours sincerely, 
“VALERIA MoRCHARD.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 85 


Val spent a long while over the composition of her 
brief letter, re-read it a great number of times, and 
finally tore it up very carefully into small pieces. 

“What’s the use?” she said. 


Captain Cuscaden, however, did not seem to have 
been dependent upon Valeria for news of Valeria’s 
engagement. He congratulated her formally on the 
Saturday afternoon when he came to pay his farewell 
visit to St. Gwenllian. 


Olga Duffle was there, too, and Miss Admaston. 

“No more tennis this year. It’s going to rain again,” 
said Flora. 

“Here it comes,” Mr. Clover pointed out. 

“Tt may clear up later—let’s have tea.” 

After tea the rain was still falling heavily. 


“How are all you young folks going to amuse your- 
selves?” genially enquired the Canon. “Lucilla, can 
you not organize some of our old jeux d’esprit, with 
pencil and paper?” 

There was an inarticulate protest from the Captain, 
to which no one paid any attention except Valeria, who 
heard it, and Olga, who replied to it: “I'll help you, 
Dzorze, if you're very good.” 

Mr. Clover was zealous in finding paper and pencils. 

“T can’t resist this,’ said the Canon boyishly. “I 
must give some of my old favourites a turn before 
going to more serious affairs. Now what is it to be?” 

No one appeared to be very ready with suggestions. 
Captain Cuscaden was gloomily gazing out of the 
window. Olga and Adrian were talking in undertones, 
and Miss Admaston was telling Quentillian how very 


86 THEVOPTIMISt 


much she dreaded and disliked any games that re- 
quired the use of brains. 

“Are we all ready?” said Mr. Clover joyously. 

“I suppose we’re as ready as we ever shall be,” said 
Captain Cuscaden. 

Thus encouraged, they began. 

Canon Morchard, Lucilla, and Owen Quentillian 
outmatched the rest of the players with ease. Each 
seemed to think with promptitude of great men whose 
names started with A, battles that began with M, or 
quotations—English—of which the initial letter 
was W. 

They challenged one another’s references, and veri- 
fied one another’s dates. They capped quotations, and 
they provided original bouts rimés. 

The entertainment gradually resolved itself into one 
animated trio, with a faithful but halting chorus, in 
the persons of Mr. Clover and Flora, and a rapid and 
low-toned aside between Adrian and Miss Duffle. 

Captain Cuscaden played a listless game of noughts 
and crosses with Miss Admaston, and Valeria leant 
back in her chair and ceased to pretend that she was 
occupied. 

She looked at the sapphire and diamond ring on her 
finger, and thought about Owen’s cleverness. She re- 
membered that Lucilla had said he would be a difficult 
person to live with. She remembered her own secret 
desires for a life of work, and her assurance to her- 
self that such ambitions were out of place. She re- 
minded herself that her father had been, in his own 
parlance, glad beyond words to welcome Owen Quen- 
tillian as a son. And she looked at Owen himself, and 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 87 


saw him intent, over his little slips of paper, and a sud- 
den rush of tenderness came over her. His absorp- 
tion in the game seemed to make him younger, and 
in more need of her. She could remember Owen as 
a flaxen-haired, solemn, rather priggish little boy, and 
she suddenly felt that perhaps he had not changed a 
very great deal since those days, after all. 


Val felt happier, in a subdued and wistful way. She 
woke to the realization that the games were ended. 

The Canon had arisen. 

“Look up that derivation, Clover, dear man, and 
let me have it. I shall be curious. . . . Fare ye 
well, young people, I recommend Lucilla here as a 
veritable dictionary of dates, if you wish to continue 
your amusement.”’ 


Nothing could have been more evident, the moment 
the Canon had left the room, than that no one wished 
to pursue amusement on the lines indicated. 


Even Mr. Clover joined in the general movement 
that thankfully relinquished paper and pencil, and sent 
everyone to the piano, flung open by Olga Duffle. 

“Do play something,’ Adrian pleaded. 

“Oh, not me. Make your sister play. She plays so 
much better than I do.” 

It was indubitably true that Flora played a great 
deal better than did Olga, yet nobody seemed to want 
Flora to play the piano, and Olga, even as she pro- 
tested, slipped on to the music stool and ran her small 
fingers over the keys. 

“T say, how well you do everything!’ Adrian mur- 
mured ecstatically above her. 


88 THE OPTIMIST 


She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her 
little pointed teeth. 

They clustered round her. 

“Do you know ‘Oh, Kiss Me and I'll Never Tell,’ 
that comes in that revue—lI forget it’s name—the new 
one? It’s lovely.” 

To the perceptions of Valeria Morchard, trained in 
the eclectic school of the Canon’s taste, the musical 
inspiration in question was not only undeserving of 
being called lovely, but was vulgar to the point of 
blatancy, ringing through the St. Gwenllian draw- 
ing-room in Olga’s little, high, soprano voice. 

She was not at all surprised that Owen should look 
at her through his pince-nez with eyebrows expressively 
elevated, nor that Mr. Clover, presumably in a futile 
endeavour to spare the Canon’s ears, should unob- 
trusively go and shut the door. 

Val looked at Lucilla. 

There was something not at all unlike amusement 
on Miss Morchard’s face, but Val did not think that 
it was caused by the humour of “Oh, Kiss Me and I'll 
Never Tell.” Rather it might have been born of a 
gentle irony, embracing alike the puzzled distaste of 
Flora, the obvious terror of the curate lest he should 
be supposed to be enjoying the entertainment, the ab- 
sorption with which Captain Cuscaden, Adrian, and 
even Miss Admaston stood and listened, the supercil- 
ious detachment of Owen Quentillian, the complacent 
unconsciousness of the small, pert singer at the piano. 
No doubt Lucilla could have detected, had she cared to 
do so, the unspecified emotions that Val suspected of 
being written upon her own unsmiling face. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 89 


She felt suddenly impatient. 

“We're all intolerable. Lucilla is superior, and 
Flossie takes this rubbish au grand serieux, like a 
crime, and Owen is thinking how deplorable it is that 
idiotic words should be set to inferior music, and put 
before the British public for its education. . . . I 
can hear exactly what he'll say about it afterwards.” 

It struck her that the anticipation scarcely boded well 
for a life that was in future to be spent in Quentil- 
lian’s company. 


“My dusky gal is black as coal 
“But she’s just the whitest, brightest soul.” 


carolled Olga. 

“T love the darky girls, don’t your” 

Rather,” 

“Why does the English youth of today seek artistic 
inspiration from the uncivilized population of Central 
Africa, I wonder?” said Owen Quentillian. He ad- 
dressed himself to Lucilla, but his very distinct utter- 
ance was perfectly audible to everybody else. 

Captain Cuscaden laughed, and Olga looked round 
with perfect good humour. It was Adrian who glared 
at Quentillian, and Mr. Clover who observed reproach- 
fully: 

“I’m sure those old plantation songs are charming, 
as Miss Olga renders them.” 

“You shouldn’t be so superior, Owen,’ 
tranquilly. 

It was what Val had been thinking, but she had 
found herself quite unable to say it, from the very 
intensity of her feeling. 


5] 


said Lucilla 


90 RHE O Pac byels 


Lucilla placed an old album on the music stand, and 
they all began to sing together “Comin’ through the 
Rye.” 

The music affected Valeria almost intolerably. 

All the Morchards had good voices, and both Flora 
and Lucilla sang well. Their true, deep voices grad- 
ually dominated Olga’s high pipe, and the four men 
sank to a mere murmur of accompaniment. Miss Ad- 
maston had never done more than crane over every- 
body’s shoulder in turn in an endeavour to see the 
page at close quarters, and murmur the last words of 
a verse in an undertone when everyone else was singing 
the first line of the refrain. She was now altogether 
silent. 

“Sing the Russian songs, Flora,’ said Quentillian. 

Valeria pressed her hands closer together, and leant 
against the wall. 

It was growing dark. 

The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was 
wild and sweet. 


“You are my darling, you are my soul 
“Light of my life, my sun, my goal 
“You are my being, my delight 

“Star of my darkest night.” 


Direct, primitive worship of one man for one 
woman: Flora’s voice held all the passion that was not 
in her, save at her music. 

The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in 
its intensity. 

She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that 
Owen Quentillian would not give it her. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 91 


To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her. 


“But all is well for thou art with me 
“The world is full of only thee’ 


sang Flora. 


“What is the matter?” said the low, troubled voice 
of Cuscaden beside her. 

Val started violently. 

eval, you, must teliime. What is it’... . 7?” 

They looked at each other. 

It suddenly became the thing that mattered most in 
the world that Val Morchard and George Cuscaden 
should speak alone to one another. 

Regardless of the rain pouring outside, Valeria 
gently opened the French window behind her. 

“Come outside. I must speak to you,’ 
gently. 

She had no idea what she was going to say. 


’ 


she said ur- 


Outside, in the rapidly gathering darkness, the rain 
fell in torrents and splashed up from the ground 
against the stone step of the low veranda that ran 
round the house. 


Cuscaden stepped out of the warm room and closed 
the window again behind him. It was as though he 
had shut them out of the world of music and com- 
panionship, into some colder, more virile atmosphere. 


“But all is well for thou art with me 
“The world is full of only thee.” 


Flora’s song reached them as faintly as possible, 
and neither heeded it. 


OZ THE OPTIMIST 


They faced one another, and Val found that she 
was shivering from head to foot. 


“Why do I never get a chance of speaking to you 
nowadays?” said Captain Cuscaden violently. 

“Vou could have,” said Valeria, and her voice broke. 

His arms went round her. 

“Val, Val, I love you so.” 

It was as though Quentillian had never existed. 

“And you're going to Canada,” she wailed. 

“You're coming with me.” 

“IT must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his 
kisses. 


“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the 
Canon. 


His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused 
under the light of a lamp, and inadvertently thereby 
gave the Canon an opportunity of verifying his state- 
ment. 

Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely 
aware that her rain-wet hair was disordered, her face 
flaming, and showing all the marks of recent and vio- 
lent weeping. 

“What is all this?’ the Canon enquired rather 
sternly. , 

Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying. 

“Answer me, Valeria.” 

“Captain Cuscaden is looking for you,” said Valeria 
almost inaudibly. 

“Captain Cuscaden ?”’ 

Kes). 

They gazed speechlessly at one another. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 93 


A weight had descended upon the Canon’s brow and 
the lines round his mouth were set sternly. 

“Valeria, has he insulted you?” 

The intimate conviction overwhelmed her that the 
Canon’s opinion of her recent interview with Captain 
Cuscaden would certainly demand an emphatically af- 
firmative reply to the enquiry. She felt a purely 
hysterical desire to burst out laughing at the thought. 

“How is Captain Cuscaden concerned with you? 
If it is as I think, Valeria, you did well to refer him 
to me.” 

“But it isn’t. He—I—we are both to blame, Father. 
I’m going to break off my engagement to Owen. I 
love George.” 

The words were said, and although Valeria broke 
into a flood of tears, it was with a sense of relief. 
Telling Owen that she did not intend to marry him 
after all, was, she honestly felt, nothing to telling the 
Canon so. 

She sank down on the stairs and hid her face in her 
hands, afraid to face her father’s realization of the 
implication that her words contained. 

It did not tarry. 

“Do you want me to understand that you are under 
a solemn engagement to marry Owen Quentillian, and 
that you have at the same time been allowing—en- 
couraging—the clandestine attentions of this—this 
fellow? You, my daughter, behaving like a wanton? 
I won’t believe it—I can’t believe it—’’ the Canon’s 
voice rose violently. “Valeria, for God’s sake tell me 
I’m mistaken—don’t crouch there like a guilty crea- 
ture—tell me I’m wrong, tell me you’re the pure, hon- 


94 THE OPTIMIST 


est maiden I’ve tried to make you and not—not—a 
creature without honour, without decency : 

The rising note of anguish broke on a strangled sob. 

Below, a door was shut sharply. 

“Get up,” said the Canon with violence. 

Valeria rose, and he pulled her to her feet and 
gazed searchingly into her face. 


“And this is my child!’ said the Canon, and in his 
turn dropped his face into his hands, groaning. 


“T couldn’t help it,” she spoke between her sobs, like 

a child. ‘Owen knew I wasn’t in love with him 
only I never realized, I didn’t know George 
cared, too—it was always him . . .” 

“Stop!” thundered the Canon. “Are you without 
shame, Valeria? Is that fellow waiting for me down- 
stairs, or has he crawled away as I should expect, 
from one who has so repaid my hospitality?” 

The words gave Valeria a needed impetus. 


“He is ready to meet you, Father—he went to find 
you. And I love him—I suppose I’ve been very dis- 
honourable, but I—I believe Owen will understand.” 

She broke into tears again, and left him. 


Overwhelmed with the sense of her own dishonour, 
regarding the Canon’s wrath as might have a child, in 
the light of the greatest calamity that life could pre- 
sent, she turned with absolute relief to the thought of 
Owen’s dispassionate judgments, his studiously imper- 
sonal attitude towards life. Owen would understand. 

There came a knock at the door. 

“Val, may I come in?” 

“What is it?” said Valeria unwillingly. 





VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 95 


Lucilla entered the room, unperturbed, but fully ac- 
cepting the disordered aspect of its occupant. 

“I’m afraid, Val, that the drawing-room door was 
open, and it was impossible to help hearing Father. I 
thought you’d rather know, in case you wanted to 
speak to Owen.” 

“Owen knows?” almost shrieked Valeria. 

“I suppose he does. He must have drawn his own 
conclusions.” 

“T couldn’t help it,” said Val again. “I never meant 
anything like that to happen—it’s George Cuscaden, 
Lucilla. It was always him, indeed it was, only I 
didn’t know it, and it all seemed to happen in a minute 
—it was stronger than either of us.” 

“I dare say you did quite right. Why don’t you 
asta abe. 

“Oh, Lucilla, how like you!” 

Valeria laughed shakily, but she followed her sis- 
ter’s advice. 

Lucilla methodically produced Val’s brush and comb, 
and dry clothing. 

“Maud Admaston and Miss Duffle have gone, and 
Adrian went with them. Mr. Clover has gone, too, so 
it was only Owen and Flossie and I that heard.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He didn’t say anything. Shall I fasten you up, 
Val?” 

“Lucilla—what am I to do?” 

“Tell Owen you can’t marry him, and tell George 
you will marry him.” 

“I wish it was as simple as that! You always take 
things so literally.” 


96 THE OPTIMIST 


“Well,” said Lucilla unmoved, “I don’t see any 
other way of taking this. You can’t be engaged to 
two people at once. You know—Owen will under- 
stand.” 


“That’s what I feel,” said Val to her own surprise. 
“But Father—Father will never, never understand.” 


“Probably not. But after all, it’s you, and Owen, 
and George, isn’t it, that are concerned? I shouldn't 
let there be scenes and upsets about it, Val, if I were 
you—really I shouldn’t. Why don’t you just see Owen 
tonight, and tell him about it, and then you and he 
and George could all talk it over quietly tomorrow 
morning ?” 

Val was conscious of profound astonishment and 
also of extreme relief. 


“Do you think one could? But Father % 

“You needn’t go downstairs again. I quite under- 
stand that you don’t want to see Father again tonight. 
Shall I tell Owen to come up here?” 

“Here? How could he, in my bedroom?” 





“Goodness me, child, you may just as well be hung 
for a sheep as a lamb, surely. But if you think it’s 
so dreadful, I suppose you can come out on the land- 
ing and speak to him.” 

Impossible to disconcert Lucilla! 

Val assented to the surprising propositions so mat- 
ter-of-factly delivered. 

“Yes, tell Owen to come up. I’d better get it over. 
But Lucilla—George “4 

“Do you want me to see him, or give him a mes- 
sage?” 





VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 97 


“T want to know what Father says to him,” Val 
said faintly. 

“Very well. I’ll ask Father if George has gone.” 

“And, oh, Lucilla! I know you can’t prevent it, 
really, but if only you could make Father not come 
up to me tonight! I can’t bear any more—indeed I 
can’t.” 

“Well,” said Lucilla, “you’d better lock the door 
then.” She took the key from the lock, put it on the 
inside of the door and tried it in a practical manner. 
“That’s all right. You can lock it on the inside as 
soon as Owen has gone.” 

She went downstairs, but turned and came up again 
the next moment. 

“T’ll have dinner sent up to you, shall I?” 

“T don’t want any.” 

“T should think you’d better have something, Val. 
I'll send up soup and chicken. The pudding is only 
ginger, and you know how badly she makes ginger pud- 
ding.” 

Lucilla departed in earnest, upon this prosaic pro- 
nouncement. 

She was succeeded by Owen Quentillian, and Val 
went out upon the landing to meet him. 

“Will you forgive me, Owen? I can’t marry you.” 

“What has happened ?” 

“T thought you knew,” she said piteously. 

“T suppose I do. Is it Cuscaden?” 

Sey CBs. 

“Then why,’ Owen demanded in reasonable accents, 
“couldn’t he have proposed to you himself without 
waiting for you to be engaged to me?” 


98 THE OPTIMIST 


“He thought he couldn’t ask me to go to Canada— 
and he’s badly off—and then, when you came, he—he 
thought it was you I cared about.” 

“T see,” said Quentillian dryly. 

“T don’t think I knew, exactly, that I still cared for 
him, and I was sure he hadn’t meant anything, and it 
—it was really all over—only then—Flora’s music, 
somehow—and he asked me what it was—and I cried. 
Owen, won’t you forgive me? Surely it’s better than 
if I’d tried to go on with it?” 

“Of course it is.” 

They looked at one another rather helplessly. 

“Val, if I can do anything to help you, of course 
will. What are you going to do?” 

“T can’t think,” said Valeria faintly. 

“When does Cuscaden sail ?”’ 

“Next week.” 

“That’s bad luck,” said Owen impartially. “Look 
here, my dear, you must be tired out. Won’t you go 
and sleep now, and in the morning we could see what’s 
to be done?” 

“Oh, how good you are!” 

He frowned slightly. 

“Surely the day of heroics is over. I haven’t the 
slightest desire to exchange pistol-shots with Captain 
Cuscaden, I assure you. We are three reasonable hu- 
man beings, and we find ourselves in a difficulty from 
which only clear thinking and absolute plain speaking 
can extricate us. You may believe me when I tell 
you that I am perfectly prepared to discuss the case 
upon its own merits.” 

Valeria could believe him without difficulty. Even 


Loe 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 99 


in the midst of her distress, she could not altogether 
stifle a slight suspicion that Owen was appreciating the 
opportunity afforded him of being thoroughly modern 
and rational. 

“Have you seen Father ?”’ 

“Not yet.” 

Quentillian’s tone betrayed no great eagerness for 
the prospective interview. 

“He is very, very angry with me, and I know he 
has every right to be. But indeed, Owen, I was com- 
ing straight to you, only I met him first, and it some- 
how came out. George was going to tell him.” 

“Your father has never liked Captain Cuscaden,” 
said Quentillian meditatively. “I am afraid he will 
make things very difficult.” 

sueceserve: it.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” said Quentillian, with severity. 
“This is that foolish idea of atonement and repentance 
—and all the other cheap salves to the humiliation of 
having made a mistake. Don’t you see that it’s all 
waste of time and energy, Val? You ought to be 
thinking of what you’re going to do next, and how 
you can do it with least wear and tear for us all. Life 
isn’t a series of sins and punishments or virtues and 
rewards, as it is in one’s nursery story-books. There 
are actions and their consequences—that’s all.” 

She looked up at him, bewildered, and yet slightly 
relieved at perceiving that he still possessed the power 
of sententiousness. 

“Only say you forgive me, Owen.” 

“Tf you wish it, my on of course. Please don’t 
ery any more.’ 


100 THE OPTIMIST 


Valeria, however, crying more than ever, drew the 
sapphire and diamond ring from her finger and mutely 
held it out to him. 

Owen gazed at it for a moment through his pince- 
neg. 

Then he put it gently back into her hand again, and 
closed her fingers round it with his own. 

“Please, Val.” 

Still holding her hand, he bent forward and very 
softly kissed her wet cheek. 

“If we’re not engaged any more, we've got to go 
back to what we were before—brother and sister, Val. 
Good night—don’t cry any more.” 

The smile with which he left her was in his eyes 
as well as on his lips, and held nothing so much as 
very gentle amusement, and an affectionate concern. 


(vii) 


THE amusement was no longer to be seen in the eyes 
of Quentillian, and the concern had:no affinity with af- 
fectionateness, when he reached the door of the Canon’s 
study. 

He felt himself to be eleven years old once more, 
and in complete uncertainty as to the manner in which 
he might be received, after the discovery of some un- 
wonted misdemeanour. | 

The thunderous voice that bade him come in did 
nothing to dispel the unpleasing illusion. 

The Canon was sitting at the writing table, under 
the carved crucifix that hung against the green velvet 
plaque. A blotting pad, deeply scored with heavy black 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 101 


lines, lay beneath his hand, and a broken lead pencil 
testified to the energy with which that hand had sought 
an outlet for the feelings that presumably agitated its 
owner. 

The Canon swung round in his chair as the door 
closed behind Quentillian. 

“Owen, Owen!” His voice broke. “My boy, how 
can I face you?” 

The Canon answered his own question by rising 
impetuously and leaning heavily upon Quentillian’s 
shoulder, one hand across his eyes. 

“My dear, dear fellow!” 

His voice, charged with emotion, broke horribly over 
each fresh ejaculation. 

“My son—Owen—you’ve been nothing less to me 
—and now—treated like this—one of mine own house- 
hold—what can I say, what can I say?” 

Quentillian longed heartily to implore the Canon to 
say nothing at all. 

“Won’t you sit down, sir? I thought Id better 
come and talk to you, if I may.” 

“Anything, anything, dear lad. Have you seen my 
unhappy child?” 

“Valeria and I have agreed that we are no longer 
engaged,” said Owen carefully. “I don’t consider that 
I have been unfairly treated. She discovered, rather 
before the eleventh hour, that she and Captain Cusca- 
den were in love with one another, and it would have 
been quite as unjust to me as to herself, if she had not 
acted upon the discovery.” 

Canon Morchard gazed anxiously at the victim of 
this neatly-analysed situation. 


102 THE OPTIMIST 


“For Heaven's sake, Owen, don’t let yourself be- 
come bitter. It is so easy—so fatally easy, when one 
is suffering. Take a stronger grip of your faith than 
ever before, dear lad—remember that ‘all things work 
together for good.’ One learns to dwell upon those 
words, and the meaning Weber into something so 
unspeakably precious. 

To Owen’s relief the Colod sank back into his chair 
again. 

“I can offer you no atonement,” he said presently, 
with a deep weariness in his voice. 

“T am still unutterably bewildered. How I have 
failed, how I have failed, with my motherless girl! 
And I thought I knew my child—my merry Valeria, 
as I have called her from her babyhood—I thought I 
knew her through and through! She to be dishon- 
ourable, she to be heartless, she to attach herself to a 
godless, brainless, mannerless fellow—and when a man 
like yourself had received her troth! Owen, it is as 
though mine own right hand had turned against me.” 

The Canon held out a trembling right hand and 
gazed upon it. 

“Where is Captain Cuscaden now, sir?’ enquired 
Quentillian, almost expecting to hear that the object 
of his solicitude had been bound and cast into outer 
darkness. 

“Where!” Canon Morchard struck the table with 
his clenched fist until the blotting-paper and the broken 
pencil bounded again. “Where! I have dismissed 
him, Owen. Does he think that I shall give my daugh- 
ter to one who comes like a thief in the night? There 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 103 


is such a thing as a righteous anger, and such an anger 
was mine then.” 

It seemed to be his still, Owen reflected, and boded 
ill for his own wish to discuss the situation impar- 
tially. 

“Valeria is very unhappy, sir.” 

The Canon groaned. } 

“T can’t trust myself to see her, to speak to her. 
God knows that my place is with my unhappy child, 
but my shameful lack of self-control makes me tremble. 
I have been angry—I am angry still.” 


He looked piteously at Owen. 

“T have thought to get the better of my devil with 
prayer and fasting, but the old Adam is strong—ter- 
ribly strong. When I saw my child—my little Valeria 
—her eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing up- 
stairs as might a shamed creature, to hide itself— 
when I realized the depths of her dishonour—Owen, it 
was in me to have struck her. I could have raised my 
hand against my own child!” 

His head sank upon his breast. 

Quentillian waited before making a _ further, 
strangely inadequate, contribution to the conversation. 

“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this 
too seriously?” 

Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled 
grimly. 

“Generous—very generous, Owen. But I am to be 
deceived by no such feint. I, who have had the care 
of souls these thirty years! Do you think that, what- 
ever front you may present to the world, my eyes— 


104 THE OPTIMIST? 


mine—are to be blinded? Do you think that J do not 
know that the iron has entered into your soul?” 

The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing 
as they gazed into Quentillian’s, that the object of his 
penetration sought in himself almost hopefully for 
some of the searing emotions attributed to him. 

He discovered none. 

Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even, 
—but nothing more. 

Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed 
phrases of complete truthfulness, only to reject them. 

“I assure you that I am not in the least unhappy at 
having been jilted by your daughter | j30ae 


leaves me quite cold . ... I dont think Dever 
really wanted to marry Val very much... we were 
much better friends before we tried to become en- 
gaged. iy" 


Or, with a yet more devastating candour : 

“T’ve been certain for days that I made a complete 
fool of myselt by ever proposing marriage to Va- 
leria. : 

This surprisingly agile form of mental gymnastics 
was tempestuously interrupted by the Canon. 

“For God’s sake, Owen, break down!’ he groaned. 
“My boy, my boy, you’re safe with me. Forget that 
I’m Valeria’s father—think of me only as one who has 
known suffering—aye, and sin, too. Make a safety- 
valve of me—let yourself go. But I can bear this 
sham cynicism of yours no longer. It’s wrong, Owen, 
it’s wrong. True fortitude faces what lies before it, 
finds its Gethsemane, and rises, purged of bitterness. 
Break down—weep, nay, curse if you will, only cast 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 105 


open the floodgates. Let loose whatever devils possess 
your soul, you, the victim of treachery—let them 
loose, I say, and we will conquer them together.”’ 

For an instant, all that Quentillian could do hardly 
sufficed to prevent his letting loose a violent fit of 
laughter. 

He drove his teeth into his lower lip. It was his 
increasing perception of the Canon’s overwhelming 
misery that steadied him. 

“Val has hurt me less than you think, sir,’ he said 
gently at last. “I have sometimes thought that she 
and I had made a mistake.” 

The Canon gazed at him with a pathetic unbelief. 

“My unhappy child does not know what she has 
lost.” 

“I hope she is going to be happy in her own way,” 
said Quentillian. 

The Canon’s brow instantly became thunderous 
again. 

“Not one word, Owen, not one word on those lines,” 
he commanded sternly. “I appreciate your generosity 
deeply, but there is such a thing as carrying generosity 
too far.” 

“I can see small generosity in relinquishing to some- 
one else what is no longer mine.” 

The Canon swept on, unheeding. 

“My faith in my child has received a rude shock. 
Valeria is unfit for wifehood and motherhood. How 
can I let her undertake responsibility when she has 
proved herself unworthy up to the hilt? No, Owen, 
let it rest there. J will deal with Valeria, and may God 
help us both!” 


106 THE OPTIMIST 


Quentillian felt inclined to echo the petition whole- 
heartedly. 

* He could not doubt that the Canon’s misery was ut- 

terly unfeigned. So, also, was his wrath. 

The incongruous sound of the dinner-gong vibrated 
violently through the room. 

The Canon did not stir. 

His voice, when next he spoke, was almost a groan. 

“T cannot see Valeria tonight. God forgive me, I 
am not master of myself. Your calm shames me, 
Owen. But it is not natural, not natural. You will, 
and must, suffer for it later on. Tell me, dear fellow— 
that I should have to say it!—do you wish to leave us 
—do you wish to go?” 

Owen wished for nothing so much as an immediate 
adjournment to the dining-room, but he felt that it 
would indeed be impossible to say so. 

“You would not wish me to send Valeria from 
home, I know. Nor do I know where I could send 
her.”’ 

“Let her marry Cuscaden,” said Quentillian boldly. 

“Never, Owen. Give my child—my weak, untrust- 
worthy child, to a man who could behave as Cuscaden 
has behaved? Believe me, I appreciate the generosity 
that prompts you, but you know not what you ask— 
you know not what you ask.” 

Quentillian, entirely unaccustomed to any such ac- 
cusation, was silently annoyed. 

He was also hungry. 

“IT have sometimes thought,” said the Canon with 
a trembling voice, “that my tendency has been to idol- 
ize my children. I lost their mother so early! You 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 107 


know how it was with me, Owen. Lucilla was my 
eldest born, my right hand. I have come to depend 
upon Lucilla, parodoxical though it may sound, from 
a father towards his child. David, my eldest son 

.”’ the Canon paused a long while, and then 
murmured softly: “ ‘Whilst he was yet a great way 
off’—David is in a far country, but he will return to 
us yet, and though his Morning Prayer be our Even- 
song, who shall say that there is separation between 
us? And I have kept my other children by my side, 
Owen. Little Flora has never yet tried her wings 
away from home. She is more like her mother than 
any of them—she and the dear Adrian.” 

A smile like an illumination came into the Canon’s 
eyes as he spoke Adrian’s name. “The light of mine 
eyes, that dear lad has always been. My Benjamin! 
There are no words for what I went through whilst 
Adrian was fighting, Owen. One could only remem- 
ber in Whose keeping he was, and that all must be 
well, in reality. But all one’s faith was needed—it 
must be so, with poor human nature. The soul goes 
through dark waters, Owen, as you are finding now.” 

The protest which Owen almost automatically regis- 
tered within himself at this interpolated reference to 
the despair which he could not feel, was necessarily 
a silent one. 

“Valeria has been the brightest, the most light- 
hearted, of all my children. She is naturally gifted 
with high spirits, and she and I have made innocent 
fun together, have shared the humourous view of life, 
a thousand times. Have I allowed that gaiety of hers 
to turn to flippancy—that mirthful spirit to cloak a 


108 THE OPTIMIST 


lack of principle? I ask myself again and again where- 
in I have erred, for I cannot hold myself blameless, 
Owen. I have thought over my motherless children, 
I have prayed, and yet it has come to this—it has come 
to this!” 

The Canon’s head dropped back into his hands once 
more, and Quentillian felt as though this despairing 
round of anger, self-blame, self-pity, and genuine 
misery, might go on forever. 

He glanced at the clock. The dinner-gong having 
failed of its appeal, it appeared as though nothing need 
ever interrupt them again. 

“T will give him five minutes more, and then I shall 
stand up,’ Quentillian decided. 

The Canon lifted a haggard face. 

“Perhaps I had set my heart overmuch upon your 
marriage with my child, Owen. It may be so—it may 
be so. I may have forgotten that we poor mortals 
cannot, after all, see very far—that all plannings and 
schemings are very vain, seen by the light of Immor- 
tal Wisdom. If so, I am receiving my punishment 
now.” 

The Canon groaned again. 

“I am at a loss how to act. I can decide nothing. 
I must see Valeria, but how can I do so until I can 
command myself?” 

Even as he asked the question, the veins stood out 
upon the Canon’s forehead, his nostrils quivered and 
his face became suffused. 

“Three minutes more,” Quentillian reflected. 

“Owen, one thing I must ask. Has she asked your 
pardon?” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 109 





“Yes, but indeed I don’t think i 

“No, Owen, no.” The Canon raised his hand in 
instant protest. “Each generous plea from you, stabs 
me afresh. I ask myself if my unhappy child even 
knows what she has lost. I thought I knew Valeria 
through and through—that nothing in her nature was 
hidden from me, from her father. I have been 
strangely mistaken, indeed.” 

(“Another half minute.”’) 


“Am I harsh with her, am I harsh to my mother- 
less girl? God knows that I was angry when I met 
her this evening, distraught-looking, crouching be- 
fore me like a shamed and terrified creature. I cannot 
even now fully understand what has occurred, but her 
own admission was that, engaged to you, she believed 
herself to love another man—that she had allowed 
him to make love to her.” 

Owen stood up resolutely. 


“Aye, Owen, I do not wonder at it, if you seek the 
relief of movement. It is more natural so. I, too, in 
my day, have paced this room.” 

Quentillian, however, had no desire to pace the room 
except for the very few steps that would put him out- 
side it. 

He debated in vain within himself the most tactful 
method of making this clear to Canon Morchard. 

“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come 
upon me with fearful suddenness—I suspected noth- 
ing—nothing. How could I ‘ 

The door opened. 

Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She 





110 THE OPTIMIST 


did not go up to her father, but spoke quietly from the 
door. 

“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to din- 
ene 

A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable 
brows together. 

“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own 
room, at my work, Lucilla?’ he enquired. 

Her face did not change, but she looked at Quen- 
tillian. 

“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.” 

The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the 
resting-place now rapidly becoming habitual to it— 
Quentillian’s shoulder. 

“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial ur- 
gencies upon you.” 

The Canon’s other hand went out towards his 
daughter. 

“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps 
Mary was nearer my mood than Martha, just now— 
Martha, careful and troubled over many things. Go, 
then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. 
Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed again.” 

With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his 
writing-table. 

Owen and Lucilla went out. 

“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded 
to come to dinner?” 

“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall 
take in a tray when I go to him later. Sometimes, if 
he’s talking, he eats without thinking about it. I was 
counting on that—and besides, he would have disliked 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 111 


my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as 
usual.” 

Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely 
guiltless of irony. 

Quentillian followed her into the dining-room: 

“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. ‘Would 
you rather I stayed, or that I went?” 

“Stay, please.” 

She sat down opposite to him at once. 

“I wish your father were less angry with poor Val, 
although perhaps it is not my place to say so. But in 
his—his generous sympathy for me, I am afraid he 
has rather lost sight of what she must have been suf- 
fering.” 

“IT don’t think suffering, in my father’s eyes, would 
ever condone what he considers wrong-doing.” 

The comment seemed to Owen to be rather an 1il- 
luminating one. 

“I suppose not. It may surprise you to hear that I 
do not, personally, consider that Canon Morchard is 
entitled either to condemn or condone whatever Valeria 
may have done.” 

“T quite agree with you.” 

Quentillian was less gratified than astonished at the 
assertion. 

“Val herself would hardly agree to that.” 

cON OE 

“Well, but don’t you see, Lucilla, how difficult that’s 
going to make things? To my mind, the only natural 
proceeding is for Valeria and George Cuscaden to 
marry and go to Canada.” 

Quentillian paused almost without meaning to, on 4 


112 THE OPTIMIST 


pronouncement that would certainly have met with 
drastic and emphatic interruption from Canon Mor- 
chard. 

Lucilla, however, received it unmoved. 

“Don’t you think so?” said Quentillian, slightly dis- 
appointed. 

eX ea 

“But will Valeria do it? Won't her strange ideas 
of filial duty interfere? I am absolutely convinced 
that one of the principal reasons for her ever becom- 
ing engaged to me, was her wish to please her father.” 

“I don’t think it was altogether that, Owen. But 
you did ask her to marry you at a time when she was 
just beginning to realize that the sort of life she led 
before the war wasn’t going to be enough for her.” 

“Need it have taken a European war to make her 
see that?” 


The smile that Lucilla turned upon his petulance was 
disarming. 

“Don’t be so cross, Owen.” 

She might have been talking to a little boy. 

“T think,” said Quentillian with dignity, “that per- 
haps you forget it was only a few hours ago that I 
learnt how completely cheated and—fooled, I have 
been.” 

He could not avoid a recollection that the Canon 
would not have needed such a reminder. 

“Indeed, I don’t forget at all,”’ said Lucilla earnestly. 
“Tt must be very vexing for you, but—Owen, do for- 
give me for saying that I can’t really feel as if you 
minded dreadfully. You’re much too understanding, 
really, not to know that poor Val didn’t wilfully cheat 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 113 


you, any more than she cheated herself. And I think 
you, too, perhaps, in another way, were beginning to 
feel that you’d made a mistake in promising to marry 
one another.” 


Lucilla, Quentillian realized half ruefully and half 
with amusement, had beaten him at his own game. 
Her unvarnished appraisement of the situation brought 
to it no more and no less than the facts warranted. 


His answering gaze was as straight as her own. 

“You're right,” he said abruptly. 

She held out her hand with a laden plate in it. 

“Pudding?” she enquired, prosaically. 

“Thanks.” 

He made an excellent dinner. 

“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?” 

“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and 
that’ll make Val feel better. And you'll help, won't 
your” 

“Certainly.” 

And, on the strange assurance, they separated. 

It was much later that Owen, from his own room, 
heard the door of the study immediately below him, 
open once more, and then shut. 

Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a 
steady stream of sound, rising and falling, easily to be 
identified as the Canon’s voice. 

“Good God, what more can he have to say about 
it?” reflected Quentillian. He was destined to ask 
himself the question again, for the sounds, punctuated 
by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to the 
delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far 
into the small hours of the morning. 


114 DH EO RGN it 


Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was 
roused by a gentle, reiterated knocking at the door. 


Only too well aware whose hand was responsible 
for those considerately modified taps, he rose and went 
to open the door, omitting the usual invitation to enter. 

As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and 
weary-looking, stood without. 


“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. 
Owen, I could not but come to tell you that all is well 
with me now. I have forgiven, even as I myself hope 
—and need—to be forgiven. I will see Valeria to- 
morrow, and tell her that she has my full and free 
pardon. Together we will consider what is the best 
thing that we can make of this most unhappy busi- 
ness.” 

“And Cuscaden, sir?” 

Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of 
Captain Cuscaden in the proposed conference, which 
might reasonably be supposed to concern him closely, 
but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference. 


“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, 
even for him. “Unto seventy times seven.’’ Those 
words have been ringing in my ears until I could 
almost bring myself to believe that I heard them ut- 
tered aloud. I need not ask if all is well with you, 
dear boy? Your self-command and generosity have 
shamed me all along.” 


The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quen- 
tillian, with considerably more reason than the Canon, 
to feel ashamed in his turn. 


“T am very far from being what you think me, sir,” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 115 


he said, earnestly, and with complete truth. “I am 
afraid you are very tired.” 

The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted. 

“Tf so, it is in my Master’s service,’ said Canon 
Morchard gently. “And you remember, Owen—‘there 
remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and yours, too— 
all in His own good time! Goodnight to you, my 
dear.” 

For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the 
Canon placed his hand upon his head and murmured 
a word of blessing. 

Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he 
turned and went away upstairs. 


(viii) 


THE following day was one of singular discomfort, 
and of private interviews that were held to be of the 
greatest necessity, in spite of the fact that the partici- 
pants always emerged from them in worse plight than 
they went in. 

The Canon saw Valeria in his study, and she came 
out crying. 

Valeria sought Flora, and both wept. 

Quentillian deliberately demanded an interview from 
Captain Cuscaden, but was baffled in his design of a 
rational discussion of the three-cornered situation by 
Cuscaden’s honest bewilderment at the mere sugges- 
tion of disinterested counsel. 

It seemed, indeed, that Captain Cuscaden would 
have understood Owen better, and certainly have 
thought more highly of him, had the traditional horse- 


116 TEE OP TMS T, 


whip, abhorred of all Owen’s most deeply-rooted preju- 
dices, held a place in their conversation, at least as 
threat, if not as actual fact. 


Failing the horsewhip, Cuscaden was inclined to 
follow in the wake of the Canon and attribute to 
Valeria’s discarded fiancé a spirit of generous heroism 
that was even less to Quentillian’s liking. 


“Captain Cuscaden takes primitive views,” Quentil- 
lian observed to Lucilla, whom alone he suspected of 
summing up the whole situation very much at its true 
value. 


“Yes, that will suit Val very well.” 

“You think she takes primitive views, too?” 

“Yes, don’t you?” 

Owen realized that, although he had never thought 
Valeria subtle, he had at least supposed her to be 
capable of appreciating his own subtlety. But subtleties 
had not, apparently, really weighed with Val at all. 


The sight of her tear-mottled face annoyed Owen’s 
esthetic sense so much, and he felt so _ sincerely 
ashamed of his annoyance, that it constrained him to 
absent himself from the house all the afternoon. He 
would gladly have left St. Gwenllian altogether and 
felt sure that the Canon expected nothing less of him, 
but Flora brought him a piteous little message from 
Val to beg that he would remain until “something was 
settled.” 

In the forlorn hope that this had been achieved, 
Quentillian returned. 

An eager grasp met him almost upon the thresh- 
old. 

“Owen, dear lad! Where have you been? I have 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 117 


been uneasy—most uneasy, at your prolonged ab- 
sence.’’ 

“I’m very sorry, sir.” 

“Nay, so long as all is well with you! I should 
have had more faith.” 

The Canon smiled gravely, and relief was latent in 
the smile. Quentillian suddenly realized that Canon 
Morchard had not improbably known the sub-conscious 
fear of his guest and protégé having sought some 
drastic means of ending an existence in the course of 
which he had been played so ill a turn. 

His sense of his own inadequacy increased every 
moment. 

“May I know how things stand?’ he enquired 
abruptly. 

“May you? Who has a better right than yourself, 
dear Owen? Come you out with me, and let us have a 
few words together.” 

Owen followed his host. 


“Tt has been a trying day—a sad and trying one. 
But I need not tell you that—you, whose grief is so 
much greater than mine own, even. Though you, 
at least, Owen, have nothing to reproach yourself with, 
whereas I am responsible for the weakness in my poor 
child which has led to this unhappy state of affairs. 
But at least she is fully sensible of error—she knows 
what she has done.” 

It would be strange indeed if she did not, Owen 
reflected, in the universal bouleversement that had 
characterized Valeria’s surroundings ever since her 
sudden departure from the conventions. 

“To my surprise, Lucilla, upon whose judgment I 


118 HE OPa ve sa 


place a certain reliance, although it may sound some- 
what odd to hear of a father seeking counsel of his 
child—Lucilla advocates my sanctioning her sister’s 
marriage. My first instinct was of course to cut her 
short at the mention of anything so premature—so— 
so lacking in all taste or feeling. But—I hardly 
know % 





“There is nothing against Captain Cuscaden, is 
there?” 


Quentillian made the observation in the simple hope 
of expediting the Canon’s decision, but he immediately 
perceived that it led him open once more to the imputa- 
tion of high-minded generosity. 


“IT mean to say, he can afford to marry?’ he 
amended hastily. 

“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Mor- 
chard admitted. ‘I have never desired wealth for my 
dear ones, nor have they been brought up to it. Valeria 
is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, 
had she but acted an honourable and high-minded part 
throughout, I should gladly send her forth into the 
New World. Valeria has something of the pioneer 
spirit, I have always felt.” 

He sighed heavily. 

“Tn short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share 
her own view, then I shall not withhold my consent 
to this marriage. The haste is strange and unseemly, 
but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, 
in view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy 
child, left here, would be in a difficult and awkward 
situation, nor have I any security, alas, that she has 
sufficient discretion to face such a situation.” 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 119 


“Tt might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. 
“Lucilla is looking for us, I think, sir.” 

Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them. 

The Canon frowned slightly. 

“Am I wanted, my child?” 

“It was Owen that I wanted, father.” 

“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.” 

“T know,’ Lucilla seemed slightly ‘perplexed, but 
quite unruffled. “I know, but the post is just going, 
and I thought Owen ought to see this before I send 
it to the papers.” 

She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he 
read a brief and conventionally-worded announcement 
to the effect that the marriage arranged between him- 
self and Valeria Morchard would not take place. 

He passed it to the Canon, who groaned. 

“Must this be?’ he enquired, with some super- 
fluity. 

The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he 
added almost at once: 

“Tf ’t’were done, ’t’were well ’t'were done quickly’, 
no doubt.” 

“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” 
said Lucilla with merciless common sense. “If Val is 
married at the end of this week, we shall have to put 
that in the papers.” 

The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance. 

“Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to 
Lucilla. ‘“We can speak of such matters there.” 

Owen understood that Canon Morchard was think- 
ing of him. 

On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria. 


120 THESOP UR Sd 


“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, 
but do you really want me to stay on here any longer? 
It’s more than I can stand.” 

“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me—I | 
thought you didn’t mind, so very much, after all,”’ she 
cried in dismay. 

“T don’t mind in the least,’’ Quentillian told her 
desperately. “But it’s a false position altogether, and 
I want to be out of it.” 

“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want 
to keep you. Only somehow Father is less—dreadful 
—when you're there, Owen. But he’s forgiven me,” 
her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out with 
George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. 
We shall be married very, very quietly, on Saturday.” 

“T’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m 
sure he’s a good fellow, and I hope he'll make you 
very happy.” 

She was crying too much to speak, as he went away 
from her. 

And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that 
he had no regrets in relinquishing Valeria. 

Her warm emotionalism had not been without its 
appeal, but he had no liking for tears at a crisis, nor 
indeed for a crisis at all. His mind reverted to 
Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the 
crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoreti- 
cally, he met her attitude with applause. But he also 
remembered that he had not found her sympathetic, 
upon the preceding evening. 

Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, 
his own exactingness. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 121 


He must go, and decided that it should be to Lon- 
don. As for Stear, he would face it later. The 
thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, brought the 
realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experi- 
enced over the defection of Valeria. 

He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see 
the apricot-bloom on her lovely face, her children 
growing up there. 

With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The 
warm, human things of life had come very near to 
him, but he had not known how to hold them. Some 
subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done 
well to betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent 
nature, to the simple and primitive life of the colonies, 
and the man who was offering that life to her. 

He went away to make his preparations for leaving 
St. Gwenllian. 


Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no oc- 
casion for festivity. 


The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters: 

“T feel exactly as though I was one of those un- 
fortunate girls who come to Father for him to marry 
them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ at the 
eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wed- 
ding is hurried through, in a hole-and-corner style...” 

“Tt’s lucky for you you've got a good deal of your 
trousseau made already,’ was Lucilla’s practical reply. 

“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half 
of it!” cried Val hysterically. 

“You can’t possibly use it,’ Flora declared austerely. 
“Unless I can alter it for you in time,” 


122 DHESOP RIMES f 


“Of course she can use it,”’ said Lucilla. 

Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condi- 
tion of her nerves, Lucilla’s crudely-worded common- 
sense and Flora’s fastidiousness were equally little to 
her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her 
with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous 
detachment puzzled her sincerely, and made her doubly 
remorseful. 


It was only when George Cuscaden was actually 
with her that she knew with real certainty that she 
had done right at the last moment. 


On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard 
called Valeria, gave her his blessing and forgiveness, 
and handed to her some of her dead mother’s jewelry. 


“God bless and help you in the way that you have 
chosen, and may He bring all things together for good, 
as He alone can do.” 

“Forgive me, Father.” 

“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I 
whom you wronged, but yourself,—and one other. 
His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as you know 
well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your hus- 
band to put the past behind you. You will enter into 
your new life purified by that very sense of past 
error, humbled by repentance.”’ 

The Canon’s voice was very gentle. 

It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him 
go upstairs. 

George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. 
Clover, immediately after Matins next day, and Canon 
Morchard, throughout the ceremony, knelt with his 
face hidden by his hand. 


VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN 123 


The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides 
assailed Valeria irresistibly for a moment as she 
walked, alone with her husband, the short distance 
from the church back to St. Gwenllian. 


She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers 
she found all the reassurance that she was ever to 
need. 


“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We're 
going to face things together, now.” 


She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the 
strangest rush of pure exhilaration. 
It was her justification for the past. 


“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. 
“We're going to be very happy, in spite of everything 
that’s happened.” 

‘We are very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, 
her hand held fast in his. 

“T think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father 
was very kind last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have 
been so good.” 


“Val, my darling,” said the young man very serious- 
ly, ‘‘there’s one thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t 
mind. You've got to leave the past behind you, now. 
Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about for- 
getting thy father’s house and thine own people?” 


“Something like that.” 


“Well, I don’t really mean forgetting them, you 
know. But you’ve got your own life now, and it isn’t 
going to run on the old lines any more. It seems to 
me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in 
your life up to now, that there’s been no room for 


124 THE OPTIMIST 


doing anything. You and I are going to change all 
that.” 

“Yes, George,” said Valeria. 

She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and 
absolutely secure. Nothing mattered any more at all 
except the fact that George and she had found one an- 
other in time. 

And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, 
that she had that moment heard almost the only 
Scriptural quotation from her husband of which he 
was ever likely to deliver himself. 

Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract 
ideals, all lay behind her. In future her preoccupations 
would concern the health and welfare of her husband 
and perhaps his children, food and clothing and 
warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own 
hands. 

And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was 
glad. 


II 


ADRIAN 
(1) 


“You know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all 
wrong about this business of Val’s,’’ Adrian said re- 
proachfully to his remaining sisters. 

Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the dis- 
tressing pronouncement, but Flora said anxiously: 

“Why, Adrian?” 

“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest 
of us. You know what Father is—he’ll be days and 
days, if not months and months, getting over this, 
and it'll put him dead against anything of that sort 
for life.” 

“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I 
hope,” said Lucilla. “Neither Flora nor I are par- 
ticularly likely to break off one engagement and enter 
into another and get married and go off to Canada, 
all inside a week.” 

“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.” 

“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, 
then, Adrian?” 

Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at 
all impressed by the probability of her own sugges- 
TOT) 

125 


126 THE OPTIMIST 


“How can I think of doing anything at all when 
I can’t get a decent job and only have a nominal al- 
lowance? J know Father can’t afford more, and we’re 
all in the same box—and then Val goes and marries 
a chap like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she 
could have had a fellow with a decent little property 
and some money of his own, besides what I suppose 
he makes by writing. Why, just think what she 
could have done for all of us!” 

Lucilla laughed outright. 

“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she 
had married Owen.” 


“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of 
view,’ Adrian conceded. “‘A more absolute prig than 
Owen has turned into, I never wish to meet. You 
know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?” 

S Lhe living at Stearns 


Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless 
astonishment, and Lucilla observed that a living was 
usually offered to a clergyman. 


“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into 
the Church?” Adrian enquired, in counter-irony. 
“Goodness knows there was enough talk about it be- 
fore the war, and it would please the governor 
frightfully. In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as 
much as anything. He was disappointed about old 
David going into the army, and he’s frightfully cut 
up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort 
out of one of us. And I really don't dislike the idea 
much, especially if it means a settled income in a year 
or two’s time.” ; 

Lucilla got up. 


ADRIAN Tey 


“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to 
Father,’ she advised. “Flossie, I’m going to see 
about Val’s class.” 

Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous 
eyes. 

“You don’t realize what Father would feel about 
your speaking of going into the priesthood in that 
sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest vocation 
to the life of a clergyman.” 

“What do you know about it? I’m the only person 
who can judge of that.” 

“Tt lies between you and your conscience, certainly. 
But if you suppose that Father, with all his experi- 
ence, would be satisfied with any but the highest 
motives 0 





She stopped expressively. 

“There may be different opinions as to what the 
highest motives are,” said Adrian. “I wish this busi- 
ness of Val’s hadn't put it out of the question to ask 
Owen anything.” 

“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am 
quite certain that he doesn’t mean to let this make any 
difference, and you can ask him anything you want 
to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion 
wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most ir- 
reverent.” 


It was evident that Flora had uttered the most pro- 
found condemnation of which she was capable. 

That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was 
Adrian’s infatuation for Miss Duffle that brought to 
birth his strangely sudden desire for clerical life. 

“T suppose so.” 


128 THE OPTIMIST 


“But apart from everything else, he’s much too 
young to marry. And I don’t suppose she’d look at 
him.” 

“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.” 

“T feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, 
whom I’d never known before.” 

“He's only growing up.” 

“Does Father really know Adrian?” 

Lucilla shook her head. 

Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with 
which she had been equipped for her wedding and im- 
mediate departure for Canada had left them with a 
curious sense of having come through a great 
catastrophe. 

The Canon was more profoundly depressed than 
they had ever seen him, and rarely spoke. The reduced 
number of people present at every meal rendered more 
significant the abysmal silences of each gathering. 

Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked dis- 
position to take an immediate departure from St. 
Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so by the 
Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other 
alternative. 

The house bore a stricken aspect. 

Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, 
that petered away into silence in the presence of his 
father. 

Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more 
withdrawn than usual from his family circle. Always 
energetic, he seemed able to find innumerable claims 
upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of these, 
the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively. 


ADRIAN 129 


At dinner time only were they certain of seeing him, 
and the resultant gloom was of a nature that induced 
Adrian, far more affected by it than either of his sisters 
appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. Clover to 
dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure. 

The curate was always ready to promote conversa- 
tion, and sincerely supposed that his efforts must be 
consolatory to his hosts. His attempts took the form 
habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks upon 
whatever caught his eye in his surroundings. 

“Ha! Clover, dear man!’ ‘The Canon’s voice was 
sepulchral, rather than cordial. “Sit ye down—sit ye 
down.” 

Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neigh- 
bour, Flora, and wished that it had been Lucilla. He 
was always rather frightened of the silent Flora, and 
showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent 
by inquiring : 

“And how is the piano?” 

“What have we here, Lucilla?’ said the Canon 
gravely, although the dish of cutlets was of an unmis- 
takable nature. 

He often made use of the phrase, and on this occa- 
sion it bore an inflexion of disapproval that was evi- 
dently not inspired by the cutlets themselves, but by 
some inner, more profound discontent. 

“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover. 

“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up 
a theatrical show?’ Adrian inquired. ‘Good idea, 
isn’t it?” 

“T didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora. 

“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s 


130 THE OPTIMIST 


awfully good—Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on 
for the performance. As a matter of fact, they’ve 
asked me to help get the thing up.” 

Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent any- 
one except Lucilla from glancing surreptitiously at the 
Canon, to see how the announcement was received. 

The Canon was frowning heavily. 

“No one has more sympathy than myself with any 
diversions for young people, but the modern craze for 
amusement is carried too far. What is it that your 
friends are proposing to do, Adrian?” 

“Just get up a musical show—a sort of Pierrot en- 
tertainment. It’ll be mostly singing and dancing, I 
expect.” 

“I presume they have a charitable object in view.” 

“T suppose so,” returned Adrian, in a tone that con- 
veyed with sufficient accuracy to the majority of his 
hearers that he had no reason for supposing anything 
of the sort. 

“The youth of today is an amazement to me,” 
said the Canon impressively. “After coming through 
Armageddon, the young men and young women of 
the present generation seem given over to a spirit of 
triviality—I can call it nothing else—that amazes me. 
There is no humour, today, there is ‘ragging’ or ‘rot- 
ting.’ There is no dancing—there is ‘fox-trotting,’ 
and ‘jazzing.’ There is no dressing, with beauty and 
dignity, for young womanhood—there is blatant in- 
decency and an aping of a class that I cannot even name 
in this room. There is no art, no drama, no literature 
—there are revues, and a new class of novel of which 
I cannot even trust myself to speak.” 


ADRIAN 131 


The Canon drew a long breath and Adrian mur- 
mured sub-audibly : 

“And fifthly, and lastl # 

Mr. Clover gazed at the bowl in the middle of the 
table and said: 

“Very—very—nice maidenhair,” in a rapid under- 
tone, and Canon Morchard resumed: 

“T yield to no one, as you young folk here should 
readily admit, in my appreciation of the lighter side of 
life. I believe, indeed, that I have poked some shrewd 
enough fun in my day, at those who would have us 
believe that this world is a gloomy place. Rather 
would I say, in the old words we all know: ‘A merry 
heart goes all the way, but a sad one tires in a mile’— 
ah! You children can very well vouch for the amount 
of innocent amusement and recreation that has gone 
on amongst us. Our Sunday walks, our collecting 
crazes, our family quips in which young and old have 
taken full share—with deference due, be it understood, 
with deference due—our evening readings-aloud—I 
think all these, if they have been an entertainment, have 
also provided a certain instruction. And that is as it 
should be, let me tell you, young people—as it should 
be. 

“My father read aloud the whole of the Waverly 
novels to us, when we were children,’ Lucilla ex- 
plained to the curate. 

“Nowadays, I am given to understand that children 
read an illustrated supplement entitled Comic Cuts, 
said the Canon bitterly. 

“Pretty Wedgwood plate,” came in an aside from 
Mr. Clover. | 





32 THe OP GUNS! 


“There is a reaction even against Tennyson, that 
king of song,’ thundered the Canon. 

“Most of all against Tennyson, according to Owen 
Quentillian;’ said Adrian rather maliciously. 


“Owen is tainted by the folly of the day, undoubt- 
edly—but I cannot but believe that a young man of 
intellectual calibre such as his will learn to distinguish 
the true from the false in time. Owen is ‘the child of 
many prayers,’ ”’ said the Canon with a sudden soften- 
ing of his voice. 

A moment later he sighed heavily. 

The direction of his thoughts was only too evidently 
concerned with the recent disastrous turn taken by 
Quentillian’s affaire de ceur. 

“What is the programme of your friends’ entertain- 
ment?” the curate timorously inquired of Adrian. 


“Well, they’ve not really worked out the details yet, 
but I’ve been asked to go over there this afternoon and 
help them settle. Of course, Miss Duffle will sing, and 
she’s promised to do a step-dance, and she and I 
thought of getting up a play of some kind.” 

“You are not in a position to bind yourself to any- 
thing of that sort, Adrian,” said the Canon hastily. 
“T would have you realize that this supineness cannot 
go on. You appear to forget that you have to find 
some work for yourself.” 

It was so seldom that Canon Morchard vented his 
feelings upon his younger son that an appalled silence 
followed his words, rendering them the more notice- 
able. 

Then Mr. Clover said: 


ADRIAN T33 


“Half-past eight,’’ in time to the chiming of the 
clock on the mantelpiece, and there was another silence. 

Adrian looked sulky, and Flora nervous. The curate 
gazed across the table at Lucilla and inquired: 

“What news from India?” 

It was the head of the house who replied. 

“David is strangely lax as a correspondent, Clover, 
strangely lax. Flora there is favoured with a letter 
more often than most of us—or should I rather say, 
less seldom? And yet it costs so little to send a few 
lines regularly to the loving ones at home! You young 
folk little think what you are laying up for yourselves 
in the years to come by neglecting tokens that may 
appear trivial at the time. The unspoken kind word, 
the unwritten affectionate letter—how they come back 
to haunt us later on!” 

It almost appeared that these non-existent symbols 
were haunting St. Gwenllian at once, so heavily did 
the shadow of David’s remissness hang over the dinner 
table. 

The Canon alternated between fits of profound and 
cataclysmic silence, during which he ate nothing and 
his eyes became grave and fixed in their unhappiness, 
and outbursts of vehement discoursiveness, that not 
infrequently took the form of rhetorical remonstrances 
addressed to an audience only too willing to agree with 
him. 

The consciousness of his grief pervaded the at- 
mosphere. No one could be unaware of it. His chil- 
dren, indeed, knew of old the successive stages of 
anger, morose irritability, and heart-broken remorse, 
to which mental suffering reduced their father. 


134 THE OPTIMIST 


Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and 
remained unanswered. 

Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed 
a faint reflection of the misery that was so plainly to 
be read upon the Canon’s. 

Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was 
frankly sulky and resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity 
was tinged with regretfulness. 

Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the 
silence within, and Mr. Clover murmured distressfully : 

“A motor going along the road, towards the town.” 

“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our Eng- 
lish countryside,” said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot 
away with it. What profit or pleasure can there be in 
whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds of dust 
and an evil odour behind?” 

No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be 
derived from the pastime so epitomized, and the Canon 
after a moment pushed back his chair. 

“Don’t move—do not move on any account. Clover, 
you will pardon me, I know. I have a great deal of 
writing to get through. I shall require no coffee, Lu- 
cilla.”’ 

He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a 
slow, dejected step, his grey head a little bowed for- 
ward. 

“How long is this going to last?’ inquired Adrian, 
after a moment. 

No one attempted to misunderstand his meaning. 

“The worst of it is that he’ll be still more unhappy 
a little later on, when he realizes that his depression 
has reacted on all of us,” said Flora. 


ADRIAN be, 


“In the meantime, Adrian, I strongly advise you to 
find a job and begin to work at it,” Lucilla added. 

“Your father is very, very much depressed,” said 
Mr. Clover. 

Adrian appeared to ponder these encouraging state- 
ments, and then he observed: 

“Well, I don’t seem to be doing any good by staying 
here, so I think the best thing I can do is to accept 
the Admastons’ invitation and go over there and stay 
until after this show. It’ll be much handier for re- 
hearsals, after all.” 

It may be supposed that this reason, however ade- 
quate in fact, was not put forward, unsupported, by 
Lucilla, upon whom Adrian as a matter of course de- 
volved the task of announcing his immediate intentions 
to the Canon. 

“Let it be understood that he makes no further en- 
gagement of the kind,” said the Canon curtly. “I 
cannot interfere with his promise to these people, but 
this state of affairs must end. I will speak to him 
before he goes. Adrian is only a boy still, for all his 
war experience.” 

There was the indulgent note in his voice that always 
crept there sooner or later when speaking of his 
youngest son. 

Adrian went to the Admastons, and St. Gwenllian 
became used to the silence. Gradually the Canon re- 
sumed his habits of reading aloud after dinner, and 
of exchanging small items of general and parish news 
with his family during meals. 

He seldom mentioned Valeria, but they knew that he 
had written to her, 


136 AE OP PIMIST 


He spoke of her again when an invitation came from 
the Admastons to witness their entertainment—an invi- 
tation which Adrian, it was evident to his sisters, cheer- 
fully took it for granted that his father would refuse. 

“It is very soon—very soon, indeed—to meet our 
neighbours after this unhappy affair of Valeria’s, that 
I fear has been only too much talked about. But it 
may be right to accept—it may be right. I cannot wish 
to disappoint the dear Adrian, either, though I am out 
of tune with gaieties at present. I will think over it, 
Lucilla, my dear, and let you know what answer to 
return.” 

Lucilla, according to her wont, uttered no opinion, 
until Flora said to her: 

“Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t go to these 
theatricals? Won’t Father dislike them very much?” 

“Very much indeed, I should imagine.” 

“And do you suppose Adrian wants us to be there?” 

“Probably not.” 

They looked at one another, Lucilla with a certain 
rueful humourousness, Flora with none at all. 

“But, Lucilla, can’t you stop him?” 

“T shouldn’t think so.” 

Miss Morchard was always philosophical, rather 
than enterprising. 

The Canon’s decision was communicated to his 
daughters a few days later. 

“T have pondered this matter, my daughters, trivial 
though it be in itself. And it seems to me that we 
should do well to accept Mrs. Adamston’s invitation. 
Lucilla, you are my secretary. ... And one thing more, 
my daughters.” . 


ADRIAN 137 


The Canon’s glance rested upon Flora, upon whose 
face a shade of dismay had fallen. 

“One thing more. ‘God loveth a cheerful giver.’ 
Even though it costs us something, let us go with a 
good grace. We owe it to Valeria, to our dear erring 
one, to show that she is whole-heartedly forgiven. Yes, 
I can say it now, children. I have written my full and 
free forgiveness to your sister. The cloud has lifted.” 

If so, it appeared to have done so only with a view 
to descending upon other members of the Morchard 
ménage. 

Neither Lucilla nor Flora prepared for the Admas- 
tons’ party with any feelings save those of profound 
apprehension, and Adrian, meeting them in the hall, 
drew Lucilla aside in order to ask indignantly: 

“Couldn’t you have stopped Father from coming to- 
night? I don’t want to be a beast, but really, it’s quite 
out of his line, and he won’t enjoy himself. In fact, 
he’ll probably be sick.” 


The aspirant to the ministry was garbed as a Pier- 
rot, with a curiously-shaped black patch upon his cheek, 
revealed as a miniature couple of dancers intertwined. 

“Olga made it—isn’t it ripping?” said Adrian of 
this masterpiece. “I can’t wait—I ought to be behind 
the scenes at this minute. I came to look for some 
salts or something—Olga’s most awfully nervous. 
She’s simply shaking. What’s the proper thing to do 
for her, Lucilla? She’s really most awfully upset.” 

“What about?” 

“Stage fright, I tell you. Really good actors and 
actresses always get it. I wish I could get hold of 
some champagne for her.” 


138 THE OPTIMIST 


“Try standing over her with the water-jug,”’ Lucilla 
suggested crisply, and thereby deprived herself of her 
brother’s presence. 


The Canon was always apt, at any gathering, to re- 
quire a daughter upon either side, although he knew 
almost everyone in the county, and met old friends 
with a great and urbane pleasure. On this occasion, 
his eye roved in vain for Flora 


She had murmured to Lucilla: “I don’t think I can 
bear it. Even Maud Admaston says they’re all going 
to be very silly, and I know Father will loathe it. Tl 
change places later if you want me to.” 

She had then disappeared to the very back of the 
large billiard-room at one end of which a stage and 
curtains had been erected. 


Their hostess, with what Lucilla inwardly qualified 
as misguided kindness, conducted the Canon to a seat 
near the top of the room. 


Lucilla resignedly took her place beside him. 
“Capital, capital!’ said the Canon genially. “But 
where is my little Flora ?”’ 


“TI think she found someone who wanted to talk to 
her.”’ 


“Flora is still timid—very timid. I fear that Flora 
has let slip her chance of joining our little family 
group. I should have enjoyed having a daughter on 
either side of me, to exchange impressions.” 


The first item on the heterogeneous programme, 
however, was provocative of no very eloquent exchange 
of impressions between Canon Morchard and anyone 
else. 


ADRIAN 139 


He listened with a faint air of surprise to an open- 
ing chorus from a row of Pierrots and Pierrettes, in- 
terspersed with various noises from a whistle, a comb, 
a pair of castanets, and a small and solid poker banged 
loudly and intermittently against a tin tray. 

At the close of it he only said: 

“T hardly recognized our dear lad, at first. That 
was he, was it not, at the end of the row, next to the 
little lady with black hair?” 


“Yes. The girl was Olga Duffle. I believe she sings 
a great deal.” 

The literal truth of her own description was borne 
in upon Lucilla as the evening went on. Miss Duffle 
did sing a great deal. 


She sang a solo about the Moon, and another one 
about a Coal-black Baby Rose, and a third one, very 
short and modern and rather indeterminate, asking 
where was now the Flow’r, that had died within an 
Hour, and ending on the still more poignant enquiry, 
addressed to le Bon Dieu Above, Where was one who 
said “T love’? 


The Canon, to this item, only asked in a puzzled 
way if the end was not rather abrupt? 

“What in my day, we should have termed an unre- 
solved discord,” he observed with some slight severity. 

The sudden introduction of a quantity of toy bal- 
loons amongst the audience did not amuse him in the 
least, although he smiled, coldly and politely, as the 
guests, with little screams, buffeted them lightly from 
one to another. 

Only the people on the stage, all very young, seemed 
thoroughly to realize the function of the toy balloons. 


140 THE OPTIMIST 


They banged them hither and thither, shrieking with 
laughter when the inevitable destruction ensued, and 
making each miniature explosion an excuse for calling 
out the catchword of the evening—imported from a 
revue comedian whose methods, more or less success- 
fully imitated by most of the young men on the stage, 
appeared to consist in the making of grotesque facial 
contortions : —“‘May—I—ask — you — politely—to— 
absquatulate?” 

At each repetition of the phrase, the actors and act- 
resses were overcome with mirth. 

The members of the audience were more divided in 
their opinions. Their laughter was not immoderate, 
and that of Canon Morchard was non-existent. 

Lucilla, gazing anxiously at his severe profile, was 
yet able to feel it some slight relief that at least Owen 
Quentillian was not present. One such expression of 
melancholy beside her was more than enough. 

“T hope I am not what is vulgarly called ‘superior’,” 
said the Canon, “but I confess that all this noise ap- 
pears to me to be little short of senseless. Surely our 
faculties were given us for some better purpose than 
pointless, discordant merriment? No one is more 
ready than myself to concede i 





The upheaval of an enormous drum on to the stage 
debarred Lucilla from hearing what it was that no one 
was more ready than her father to concede, and she 
was left, amidst ever-increasing din, to judge from his 
exceedingly uncompromising expression, how much 
more of the performance would elapse without causing 
him to become what was vulgarly called superior. 


ADRIAN 141 
(11) 


Lucitita Morchard was not naturally of a sanguine 
disposition, and it must have been an optimist indeed 
who would have ventured to augur that the effect of 
the evening’s entertainment might be of benefit to the 
Canon’s spirits. 


From placidity he passed to tolerance, and from 
tolerance to endurance. In the course of the short 
play that concluded the performance, Lucilla perceived 
with resigned dismay that endurance was turning 
rapidly to serious vexation. 


“Extravagant, vulgar, decadent nonsense,” was the 
Canon’s verdict, and Lucilla’s critical faculty endorsed 
the trenchant adjectives that he had selected, although 
she was devoid of her parent’s apparently acute sense 
of disgust. 

“Olga Duffle is a good actress,” she said. 

“One dislikes the levity of it all so profoundly,” 
said the Canon. “I believe I am the last man in the 
world to hold back from any cheerful, innocent amuse- 
ment at fit and proper times and seasons, but I cannot 
but regret that Adrian, naturally gifted as he is, should 
turn his talents to no better account than mere buf- 
foonery.”’ 


The part relegated to Adrian in the little play was in- 
deed of no exalted order, and the most subtle display 
of humour conceded to him was concerned with the 
sudden removal of a chair behind him and his conse- 
quent fall on to the floor. 

The audience laughed, with mild amusement. 

Lucilla dared not look at her father. 


142 THE OPTIMIST 


A spirited speech from Olga Duffle, who had shown 
no signs whatever of the stage fright that had caused 
her fellow-actor so much solicitude, brought down the 
curtain. Lucilla’s applause was rendered vigorous by 
an impulse of extreme thankfulness. 

She was also grateful to the Canon for the measured 
clapping of the palm of one hand against the back of 
the other, with which he rewarded a performance that 
he had certainly found to be neither instructive nor 
amusing. 

Adrian sought no parental congratulations, when 
the performers, still in theatrical costume, came down 
amongst the audience, but Olga Duffle made her way 
towards the Canon. 

She looked, as usual, more attractive than any of the 
prettier girls present, and spoke with her habitual child- 
like, almost imperceptible, suggestion of lisping. 

“Didn’t you think us all very silly? Im afraid we 
were, but so few people care for anything else, now- 
adays.”’ 

Her glance and gesture eloquently numbered the 
Canon in the few, though she did not extend the im- 
plication quite so far as to include Lucilla. 

“You are a good actress, Miss Duffle. Have you 
had training?” 

“Oh, no, nothing to speak of,” said Olga modestly. 
“They did offer to give me a year at the big Dramatic 
Training place, free, after I’d acted in a charity mat- 
inée a few years ago in London. They said I could 
easily play juvenile lead in any theatre in London at 
the end of a year, but of course that was all nonsense, 
Anyway my people naturally wouldn’t hear of it.” 


ADRIAN 143 


“Indeed. Certainly it is a very moot point how far 
the possession of a definite talent justifies embracing a 
life such as that of a professional actress must needs 
be.” 

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Olga. 

Her big dark eyes were fixed on the Canon’s face, 
her lips parted with the expression of absorbed inter- 
est that lent her charm as a listener. 


Lucilla was not surprised to see that the Canon’s 
face relaxed as he looked down at the small up-gazing 
figure. 

She left them, in response to an imperious glance 
directed upon her from the other end of the room. 

“T particularly want the old man to get to know 
Olga,” said Adrian with agitation. “It’d do him all 
the good in the world to have some of his ideas about 
the modern girl put straight, and if anyone can do it, 
she can. Wasn't it priceless of her to make straight 
for him like that?” 

“Perhaps she likes to talk to a distinguished man.” 

“My dear old thing, don’t be absurd. Why, Olga 
has half London at her feet.”’ 

Lucilla felt unable to make any display of enthus- 
iasm at the announcement, although she saw no reason 
to doubt that a substratum of fact underlay Adrian’s 
hyperbole. 

“I suppose Father thought the whole show utter 
tripe?” 

“He didn’t say so,” Lucilla observed drily. 

“Well, for goodness sake get him away as soon as 
Olga’s had her talk with him. The Admastons are 
determined to turn the whole thing into a glorious rag, 


144 THE OPTIMISE 


and it’ll go on till all hours. Father would be wretched, 
and besides I should have him on my mind the whole 
time. I daresay I shan’t have many more opportu- 
nities of enjoying myself, so I may as well make the 
most of this,” said Adrian in a voice charged with 
meaning, that Lucilla understood to be an allusion to 
his recent ecclesiastical ambitions. 


When she found herself beside her father again, he 
was in conversation with a short, fat, dark man whom 
he made known to his daughter with a somewhat ab- 
stracted air. 


“Mr. Duffle, Lucilla.”’ 

She was rather amused at the ease with which Olga’s 
parentage could be traced, although in her, a retroussé 
nose replaced the wide and upturned pug of her father, 
and her dark, intelligent gaze was an unmistakably 
improved edition of his shrewd black eyes. From 
both faces shone the same ardent, restless, and es- 
sentially animal, vitality. 

Mr. Duffle, however, had none of Olga’s claims to 
social charms and talents. Lucilla knew him to be a 
successful building contractor, who had amassed a 
fortune during the war, and decided that he looked the 
part. 

“Tl come along one morning then, Canon, and have 
a little chat with you,’ Mr. Duffle was declaring with 
a breezy assurance that could hardly have been derived 
from the Canon’s expression. 

“You're kept pretty hard at it, I daresay?” 

“The man who wants me is the man I want,’ quoted 
the Canon, with his grave smile. 

“Capital. Tl blow along then, and give you a call. 


ADRIAN 145 


My big car is in London, but we’ve got a little Daimler 
down here that does very well for country lanes. My 
daughter, of course, runs her own little two-seater. 
These young people, nowadays, there’s no end to what 
they expect. Not that I grudge Olga anything in 
reason, you understand. She’s our only one, and 
naturally her mother and I think the world of her.” 

A very simple pride beamed in his face as he spoke 
of Olga, and Lucilla congratulated him upon her act- 
ing. 

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she? I believe she could 
take her place amongst professionals any day, so she 
tells me. But of course we shouldn’t hear of any- 
thing like that for her. In fact, her mother and I 
look very high for our little girl, very high indeed, 
I may say, after all that Nature’s done for her, and 
the advantages we've given her as well.” 

He laughed heartily, and then leaning confidentially 
towards Lucilla he said in a semi-whisper: 

“Whoever gets our little Olga, young lady, will be 
a very lucky fellow. There'll be a little bit of—’ he 
tapped his forehead knowingly “‘and a little bit of—” 
the tap was repeated, against his coat pocket this time. 
Lucilla required no very acute powers of intuition to 
refer these demonstrations to her brother’s intention. 

She wondered whether the Canon had made a sim- 
ilar deduction. 

He was silent during their long drive home, but it 
was the silence of thoughtfulness rather than that of 
depression. The Canon’s intimates could generally 
interpret without difficulty the nature of his silences. 


146 JHESORTIMISE 


On the morning following he called Lucilla into the 
study. 

“T had no word with Adrian last night,” he said 
wistfully. “I saw you talking to him, my dear. Did 
he tell you what day he is coming home again?” 

“No, Father.” 

“TI confess that I am perturbed. Are these new 
friends of his gentlefolk, are they church people, are 
they even Christians?” said the Canon, walking up 
and down. “If only the boy would be more unre- 
served with me! One is so terribly anxious.” 

“J don’t think he wants to be reserved. He really 
has no serious suggestion to offer, as to the future.” 


“My poor lad! He is not sufficiently in earnest. I 
have blinded myself to it long enough. His early piety 
and simplicity were so beautiful that perhaps I dwelt 
upon them as tokens of future growth more than I 
should have done. But there was a levity of tone 
about these intimates of his that displeased me greatly. 
It must cease, Lucilla—this intercourse must cease.” 

Lucilla dreaded few things more than such resolu- 
tions, from which she knew that her father, at what- 
ever cost to himself or to anybody else, never swerved. 

“The Admastons are neighbours,” she pointed out. 

“All the more reason for Adrian to be content to 
meet them in the ordinary course of events, without 
treating their house as an hotel. But there is a 
further attraction, Lucilla, I am convinced of it.” 

The Canon dropped his voice to impart his piece of 
penetration. 

“That little Miss Duffle is undoubtedly attractive, 


ADRIAN 147 


but can the boy have the incredible folly to be paying 
his addresses to her?” 

It did not seem to Lucilla that any such formal term 
could possibly be applied to Adrian’s highly modern 
methods of displaying his admiration for Olga, and 
she informed her father so with decision. 

“He must at all events be aware that he is in no 
position to render any young lady conspicuous by his 
attentions,’ said the Canon. “I am displeased with 
Adrian, Lucilla.” 

Canon Morchard was not alone in his displeasure. 
Two days after the theatricals, Olga Duffle’s father ap- 
peared at St. Gwenllian, and was shown into the study. 

The Canon greeted him, his habitual rather stately 
courtesy in strong contrast to his visitor’s bluff curt- 
ness of manner. 


“Sit you down, my dear sir.” 

The Canon took his own place on the revolving 
chair before the writing-table, and the tips of his 
fingers were lightly joined together as he bent his gaze, 
benignant, and yet serious, upon the little building- 
contractor. 

“You've got a nice little old place here. Needs a 
lot of seeing to, though, I daresay. I see you haven’t 
the electric light.” 

The Canon glanced round him as though he had 
hardly noticed, as indeed he had not, the absence 
of this modern advantage. 

“Tt wouldn’t cost you more than a couple of hun- 
dred to put it in,” said Mr. Duffle negligently. 

The Canon was not in the least interested in the 
problematical expense to be thus incurred, but he re- 


148 THE OPTIMIST 


\ 


plied gently that perhaps one of these days his suc- 
cessor might wish to improve St. Gwenllian, and be 
in a position to do so. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Duffle. “That brings me to my 
point, in a roundabout sort of way. Your young man, 
Canon, has no particular inheritance to look forward 
to, if I understand rightly?” 

“My young man?” 

“Your boy Adrian. Not even your eldest son, is 
he?” 

“Adrian is the youngest of my five children,’ said 
the Canon with peculiar distinctness. “I have two 
sons and three daughters. May I enquire the reason 
of this interest in my family?” 


“No offense, I hope, Canon. I thought you’d have 
guessed the reason fast enough—my girl Olga. Now 
mind you, I know very well that boys will be boys, and 
girls girls, for the matter of that. I’m not even say- 
ing that the little monkey hasn’t led him on a bit— 
she leads ’em all on, come to that! But Master Adrian 
has been talking of an engagement, it seems, and that 
won't do at all, you know. So I thought you and me, 
Canon HH 


“Stop! The Canon’s face was rigid. “Am I to 
understand that your daughter has reason to complain 
that my son presses undesired attentions upon her, or 
causes their names to be coupled together in a manner 
displeasing to her?” 





The builder’s stare was one of honest bewilderment. 
“Coupled together!” he repeated derisively. ‘Why, 
the lad follows her about like a little dog. I should 
think old Matthew Admaston is as easy going as they 


ADRIAN 149 


make ’em, but even he thought it a bit thick to have 
your young moon-calf, if you'll excuse the expression, 
on his doorstep morning, noon and night, while my 
girl was in the house, till they had to ask him to stay, 
to save the front-door bell coming off in his hand.” 

Mr. Duffles humourous extravagance of imagery 
awoke no response in Canon Morchard. 

“My son’s impertinent folly shall be put a stop to 
immediately,” he said, through closely compressed lips. 

“Bless me! there’s nothing that needs a rumpus 
made about it, you understand. Only when it comes 
to prating about being engaged, and promising to 
marry him in goodness knows how many years, and 
goodness knows what on—why, then it’s time us older 
folk stepped in, I think, and I’m sure you'll agree 
with me.” 

“Do I understand that my son—without reference 
to me, I may add—has asked Miss Duffle to do him 
the honour of becoming his wife?” 

Mr. Duffle stared at the Canon blankly. 

“Tl though he seems to have behaved, you will hardly 
expect me to accept, on his behalf, an entire rejection 
of his suit, without reference to the young lady her- 
self.” 

A resounding blow from Mr. Duffle’s open palm 
onto his knee startled the Canon and made him jump 
in his chair. 

“Good God!” roared the builder, causing Canon 
Morchard to wince a second time, “‘is this talk out of 
a novel? How in the name of all that’s reasonable 
can the boy marry without a profession or an income? 
I'll do him the justice to say that I’ve never thought 


150 TELENO TE REVELS IE: 


him a fortune hunter. (He’s not got the guts for that, 
if you'll excuse me being so plain-spoken.) He’s be- 
sotted about the girl, and not the first one either, though 
I do say it myself. But my Olga is our only child, and 
will get every penny I have to leave, and the fact of 
the matter is that she'll be a rich woman one of these 
days, in a manner of speaking. Therefore, Canon, 
you'll understand me when I say that Olga can look 
high—very high, she can look.” 

The Canon’s countenance did, indeed, show the most 
complete comprehension of the case so stated. His 
face, in its stern pallor, became more cameo-like than 
ever. 

“Sir, do you accuse my son of trifling, of the un- 
utterable meanness of endeavouring to engage a young 
lady’s affections without any reasonable prospect of 
asking her in marriage like an honourable man?’ 

“Bless me, Canon, I don’t accuse the young fellow 
of anything, except of being a bit of an ass,” said the 
builder. “I daresay it’s been six of one and half a 
dozen of the other. He’s a nice-looking boy, and all 
this play-acting has thrown them together, like; but 
that’s over now, and Olga comes back to London with 
us next week. But I thought I’d throw you a hint,” 
said Mr. Duffle delicately, “so that there’s no nonsense 
about following us to town, or anything of that sort. 
Her mother’s going to speak to Olga about it, too. 
Bless me, it’s not the first time we’ve had to nip a 
little affair of this sort in the bud. The fellows are 
round our little girl like flies round a honey-pot. We 
give her a loose rein, too, in a manner of speaking, but 
as the wife pointed out to me last night, it only keeps 


ADRIAN 151 


off better chances if a girl is always seen about with 
lads who don’t mean business.” 

The Canon groaned deeply, and Mr. Duffle, fearing 
himself misunderstood, hastily interposed: 

“Don’t run away with the idea that I’ve anything 
against the boy, now, Canon. I’m sure if he was only 
a year or two older, in a good job, and with a little 
something to look to later on, I’d be only too glad of 
the connection. But as things are, I’m sure as a family 
man yourself you see my point.” 

He looked almost pleadingly at the Canon as he 
spoke. 

“You did perfectly right to come to me, Mr. Duffle; 
you did perfectly right. Unspeakably painful though 
this conversation has been to me, I fully recognize the 
necessity for it.” 

If Mr. Duffle still looked perplexed, he also looked 
relieved. 

“That’s right, Canon. I felt you and me would 
understand one another. After all, we've been young 
ourselves, haven’t we, and I daresay we've chased a 
pretty pair of ankles or said more than we meant on a 
moonlight night, both of us, once upon a time.” 

So far did Canon Morchard appear to be from en- 
dorsing this view of a joint past that his visitor added 
an extenuation. 

“Of course, before you turned parson, naturally, I 
mean. I know you take your job seriously, if you'll 
excuse me passing a personal remark, and that’s not 
more than’s needed nowadays. There’s no idea of 
young Adrian going in for the clerical line, I suppose ?”’ 

“What I have heard today would be enough to con- 


152 THE OPTIMIST 


vince me that it is out of the question,” said the Canon 
bitterly. ‘But my son has evinced no such desire.” 

“H’m. There was some nonsense talked amongst 
the young people about a fat living at Stear being 
ready for him if he chose to step into it. 1 daresay 
there was nothing in it but a leg-pull, as they say. In 
any case, my girl wouldn’t look at a country parson. 
No offence to you, Canon, but it’s best to have these 
things out in plain English.” 

“Enough,” said the Canon with decision. “You may 
rest assured that my son will cease this insensate perse- 
cution of 

“Excuse me interrupting, but why make a mountain 
out of a molehill? There’s been no persecution or any 
of that talk out of books, in the case. Why, my Olga 
can’t help making eyes at a good-looking lad, and let- 
ting him squeeze her hand every now and then.” 

The Canon gave utterance, irrepressibly, to yet an- 
other groan. 

Mr. Duffle looked at him with compassion. 

“Why make a mountain out of a molehill, as I said 
before?” he repeated. “There’s been no harm done, 
except maybe a little gossiping among the Admaston 
lot, and if you tip the wink to your lad, and mother 
and I trot Olga back to London again, we needn’t hear 
any more of it. We're old-fashioned people, and 
brought up the child old-fashioned, and she’s not one 
of these modern young women who can’t live at home. 
I give her the best of everything, and a pretty long 
rope, but she knows that as long as she’s living under 
my roof and spending my money she’s got to obey me 
and her mother when we do give an order.” 





ADRIAN 153 


The builder’s face, momentarily dogged, relaxed 
again and he laughed jovially. 

“Though I’m not saying the little puss can’t get most 
things out of us by coaxing! But we’re set on a good 
marriage for her, that I tell you straight.” 

“There is only one foundation for the sacrament of 
marriage,” said the Canon sombrely, “and that is mu- 
tual love, trust and esteem.” 

“Quite, quite; the wife always takes that line her- 
self. “When the heart is given, let the hand follow,’ 
she always says, and Olga knows well enough that 
she’ll have a free choice, within reason. But love in 
a cottage isn’t her style, and things being as they are, 
there’s no reason, as I said before, why she shouldn’t 
look high. She’s a sensible girl, too, and if there is 
a bit of the flirt about her, she doesn’t lose her head. 
I will say that for her.” 

“T wish that I could say the same of my son,” bitterly 
rejoined the Canon. 

“Well, well, don’t be too hard on the lad. Human 
nature is human nature all the world over, is what I 
always say. All the parsons in Christendom can’t alter 
that, if you'll excuse the saying. It’s natural enough 
your son should lose his head over a pretty girl like 
my Olga,” said Miss Duffle’s parent indulgently. “All 
I mean is, that it must stop there, and no nonsense 
about being engaged, or anything of that kind.” 

“Do these unhappy young people consider them- 
selves bound to one another, as far as you know?” 

“Bless me, Canon, they’re not unhappy. At least, 
my Olga certainly isn’t, and if your lad throws off a 
few heroics, he'll soon get over it. Why, I remember 


154 THE OPTIMIST 


threatening to blow out my brains—as I chose to call 
them—when I was no older than he is, and all for the 
sake of a lady ten years older than myself, and married 
and the mother of three, into the bargain!” 

Mr. Duffle was moved to hearty laughter at this 
reminiscence, although it failed signally to produce the 
same exhilarating effect upon Canon Morchard. 

Perhaps in consequence of this, his mirth died away 
spasmodically, with a rather apologetic effect. 

“Well, well, Canon, take a tip from me, if I may 
suggest such a thing, and don’t take this business too 
seriously. He'll be head over ears in love with some- 
body else before you can look round, and it’ll all be 
to do over again.” 

Before this luminous vista of future amatory esca- 
pades, the builder appeared to feel that the interview 
had better be brought to its conclusion, and he rose. 

An evident desire to console and reassure his host 
possessed him. 

“Get the young fellow a job of work, if I may 
advise. It’s wonderful how it steadies them down. 
He’ll have no time to run after the petticoats when he’s 
tied by the leg to an office, or roughing it in one of the 
Colonies.” 

“The choice of a career lies in my son’s own hands,” 
said the Canon stiffly. “But you may rest assured, 
Mr. Duffle, that he will be allowed no further occasion 
for misusing his time and abusing other people’s hos- 
pitality as he appears to have been doing. I am obliged 
to you, painful though this conversation has been to 
us both, for treating me with so much frankness in 
the matter.” 


ADRIAN | 155 


“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Duffle. 

The Canon bowed slightly and escorted his visitor 
to the door. 

The Daimler car was in waiting, but the builder 
paused with one foot on the step. 

“T’ll tell you one thing, Canon,” he remarked confi- 
dentially. 

The Canon, with extreme reluctance in his de- 
meanour, signified attention. 


“Tf you should think of having that little improve- 
ment made to the place that I suggested—you know, 
the electric light put in—I can tell you the very people 
to go to—Blapton & Co. They’ve done a lot of work 
for our firm, and they’ll do it as reasonable as you can 
hope for. Don’t hesitate to mention my name.” 

He nodded, and got into the car. 

The Canon stood upon the front doorstep, his face 
pale and furrowed, his lips compressed. 


“Stop!” shouted Mr. Duffle, suddenly thrusting his 
head from the window of the slowly moving car. 
The Daimler stopped. 


Mr. Duffle descended from it nimbly and once more 
approached the Canon. 


He looked, for the first time, heated and confused. 

“It slipped my memory that.I wanted to give you 
this trifle. Perhaps you'll see to some of those poor 
fellows who are out of work through no fault of their 
own, having the handling of it for the wives and kid- 
dies. I’ve been lucky myself, and I never like to leave 
a place without what I may call some sort of thanks- 
giving. Not a word, please. Ta-ta.” 


156 THE OPTIMIST 


The Daimler made another sortie, and the Canon 
was left, still standing motionless on the doorstep, with 
the builder’s cheque for twenty-five pounds in his hand. 


(iii) 


MUEARCLUCILLA, 


“T think you’d better not expect me till you see me, 
if that’ll be all right. I may be going up to London 
for a day or two when the party breaks up here to- 
morrow, as I really must see about a job of some kind. 
I’m sure Father will approve of this, so mind you tell 
him it’s the reason. I hope he wasn’t frightfully sick 
at the way we all played the fool the night of the show, 
but really it was his own fault for coming, and if he 
didn’t like it, he must just do the other thing. 

“Cheerio. “Yours, 


“ADRIAN.” 
“My Dear ADRIAN, 


“It would be better if you could come back here 
before deciding to go to London. Father is writing 
to you, and you will probably see from his letter that 
he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are 
not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about some- 
thing, and you will only make matters worse by going 
off ina hurry. Besides, I think he would quite likely 
follow you. 

“Your affectionate sister, 


““LucILLA MoRCHARD.” 


ADRIAN 157 


TIRAR (SUCILLA, 


“If you hear of me doing something desperate, you 
may tell Father that he has only himself to thank! I 
now know what he and old Duffle have been up to, 
between them, and I may tell you that I do not intend 
to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father 
doesn’t seem to realize that I am a man, and in grim 
earnest over some things, and he and old Duffle have 
now utterly scotched my chances of happiness for life, 
although I daresay without realizing what they were 
doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if 
I have lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes 
of me, and you may tell Father so. If this is what 
religion leads to, you can also tell him that I am utterly 
off it for life. That is what they have done, by their 
interference with my affairs, because I am almost sure 
Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she 
had been let alone, and not bullied by her father and 
mother, and threatened with poverty if she married 
me. As you know, it needn’t have been anything of 
the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we 
could have had Stear, but I am completely off the 
Church, in any shape or form, so that is what Father 
has done, whether he knows it or not!!! 

“You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being 
so bitter in tone, but I may say that my faith in human 
nature is utterly shattered for good and all, and this 
has been done by my own father!! I am coming home 
on Monday and not before, so it’s no use father dic- 
tating to me. “Yours, 


‘‘ADRIAN.”” 


158 THE OPTIMIST 


“My Dearest ADRIAN, 


“T don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you 
are returning home on Monday, when you know it is 
my wish, distinctly expressed in my letter to you two 
days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so that 
we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have 
a very valid reason for disregarding my wishes, I must 
insist, for your own sake, upon your complying with 
them. I do so want you to be considerate, quite apart 
from the question of dutifulness—for instance, it is 
quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you 
are arriving here, and yet you surely know that this 
makes a difference with regard to questions of meals, 
etc., in a small household such as ours. It is only want 
of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct this fault. 
I have so often had to reprove myself for the like 
small negligences that it makes me anxious to see the 
same tendency in you. This is not a lecture, my dear 
boy, but only a reminder, from one who has had to be 
both mother and father to you. 


“T have other, and very much more serious, matters 
to talk over with you when we meet, but all shall be 
done in the spirit of love and confidence, I do trust, 
and if I am obliged to inflict pain upon you, you must 
remember that it is multiplied ten-fold upon my own 
head. , 

“T shall expect a line, sent either to myself or to 
Lucilla, announcing the hour of your arrival on Satur- 
day. God by you, dearest of lads, until we meet. 


“Your devoted 
“FATHERS 


ADRIAN 159 


“DEAR LUCILLA, 

“On second thoughts, I shall come home on Satur- 
day, in time for dinner. Most likely I shall go straight 
off to London on Monday morning, but you needn’t 
say anything to Father about this. If you can, per- 
suade him to have up the port on Sunday night. 

Yours, 
“ADRIAN,” 


“Dear lad! He is all anxiety to do right, at bottom,” 
said the Canon tenderly to Lucilla, when a censored 
version of this communication had been passed on to 
him. “You see how readily he submits to returning on 
Saturday, in order to please me.” 

If Lucilla thought this act of submission inspired 
by fear, rather than by a desire to please, she did not 
Say SO. ; 

The Canon had said nothing to her of his interview 
with Mr. Duffle, and made only one remark which 
might be held to refer to his visitor : 

“We are all of us apt to set a false value on appear- 
ances, I suspect. Aye, my daughters, in spite of his 
‘forty years in the wilderness,’ it is so with your father. 
Trivial vulgarities, or mere superficial coarseness, have 
blinded one time and again, till some sudden, beautiful 
impulse or flash of generous delicacy comes to rebuke 
one. Well, well—each mistake can be used as a rung 
of the ladder. Always remember that.” 

That trivial vulgarities and superficial coarseness 
were characteristics of Mr. Duffle was undeniable, but 
Lucilla deduced that these had been redeemed in the 
manner suggested, since the builder’s prolonged visit 


160 THE OPTIMIST 


to her father had left him, though grave, singularly 
calm. He had, indeed, summoned Adrian to St. 
Gwenllian, but his manner showed none of the peculiar 
restrained suffering that was always to be discerned 
when the Canon felt one of his children to be in serious 
fault. 

“Tt is more than time that Adrian found his voca- 
tion,” said the Canon. “I have been to blame in allow- 
ing him to drift, but it has been an unutterable joy to 
have him with us, after these terrible war-years. How- 
ever, there is no further excuse for delay. He and I 
must have a long talk.” 

Lucilla could surmise only too well the effect of a 
long talk upon Adrian, if his frame of mind might be 
judged correctly from his impassioned letter to her. 

As usual, however, she said nothing. 

The Canon’s mood of niellow forbearance continued 
to wax as the day went on, and he met his favourite 
son with a benign affectionateness that contrasted 
strangely with Adrian’s dramatically-restrained de- 
meanour. 

Flora, as a rule utterly incurious, asked Lucilla what 
was the matter. 

“T don’t quite know. Something to do with Olga 
Duffle, I imagine. Probably Adrian has proposed to 
her, or something foolish of the kind, and the Duffles 
want it stopped.” 

“Has he said anything more about his idea of taking 
Orders?” 

“T hope not,” said Lucilla rather grimly. 

She preferred not to imagine the Canon’s probable 
reception of an ambition thus inspired. 


ADRIAN 161 


The long talk projected by Canon Morchard was 
impracticable on a Sunday, always his busiest day, 
until evening. 

As the Canon rose from the late, and scrupulously 
cold, evening meal, he said: 

“Daughters, you will not sit up beyond your usual 
hour. Adrian, my dear—come.”’ 

The door of the study shut, and Lucilla and Flora 
remained in the drawing-room. 

Lucilla occupied herself with note-books and works 
of reference, and Flora, in the exquisite copper-plate 
handwriting that the Canon had insisted upon for all 
his children, in close imitation of his own, wrote out 
an abstract of her father’s sermon, as she had done 
almost every Sunday evening ever since she could re- 
member. 

The silence was unbroken till nearly an hour later, 
when Lucilla observed: 

“Do you know, Flossie, that Father’s book is very 
nearly finished? There are only two more chapters 
to revise.”’ 

““Leonidas of Alexandria,’”’ said Flora thought- 
fully. 

The subject of the Canon’s exhaustive researches 
and patient compilations was known to the household. 

“He'll publish it, of course?” 

“He hopes to. But Owen told me that there isn’t a 
very great demand for that kind of work, nowadays.” 

Flora looked inquiringly at her sister. 

“IT hope Father isn’t going to be disappointed,” she 
said, half interrogatively. 

“T’m very much afraid that he is.” 


162 TEES OPEN ST 


On this encouraging supposition of Miss Mor- 
chard’s, the conversation ended. 

In accordance with their father’s desire, both sisters 
had gone upstairs before the conference in the study 
came to an end. 

There came a knock at Lucilla’s door. 

She opened it. 

“Come in, Adrian.” 

“Tt’s all up,” said Adrian, in the eloquent idiom of 
his generation, and made a melodramatic gesture of 
desperation. 

Lucilla closed the door and sat down, seeming 
undisturbed by so cataclysmic an announcement of 
finality. : 

“T’m off on my own, after this. Father has utterly 
mucked up my entire life, as I think I told you in my 
letter, and he can’t see what he has done!” 

Lucilla wondered whether Adrian had spent two and 
a half hours in endeavouring to open his parent’s eyes 
to his own work of destruction. | 

“Would you mind telling me exactly what has hap- 
pened ?” 

Adrian embarked upon a tone of gloomy narrative. 

“Well, I don’t know whether you had any idea that 
I am—was—well, frightfully hard hit by that girl 
Olga. Not just thinking her pretty and clever, and all 
that sort of thing, you know, though of course she 
was—is, [ mean. But simply knowing that she was 
the one and only person I should ever care for. Of 
course, I know now that I was mistaken in her, to a 
certain extent, and I can tell you, Lucilla, that it’s very 
hard on a man to be as thoroughly disillusioned as I’ve 


ADRIAN 163 


been. It’s enough to shatter one’s faith in women for 
lite’ 

“But what did Father do?” said Lucilla, as her 
brother seemed inclined to lose himself in the contem- 
plation of his own future mysogyny. 

“What did he do?” echoed Adrian bitterly. “He 
and old Duffle had the—the audacity to meet together 
and discuss my private affairs, and take upon them- 
selves to decide that anything between me and Olga 
ought to be put an end to. I must say, I thought that 
kind of thing had gone out with the Middle Ages, 
when people walled up their daughters alive, and all 
that kind of tosh. And how Olga, of all people, put 
up with it I can’t imagine; but they seemed to have 
pitched some yarn about my not being able to afford to 
marry, and frightened her with the idea of my being 
after her money, I suppose.”’ 

“But Adrian, had you askéd her to marry you?” 

“No, of course not. But I did think we might have 
been engaged. Then I wouldn’t have had to put up 
with seeing a lot of other fellows after her,” said 
Adrian naively. 

“And did you explain that to Father?” Lucilla in- 
quired, not without a certain dismay in picturing the 
Canon’s reception of these strange ideals. 

“More or less; but you know what he is. He always 
does most of the talking himself. I can quite under- 
stand why we were so frightened of him as kids, you 
know. He seems to work himself up about things, and 
then he always has such a frightfully high-faluting 
point of view. We might really have been talking at 
cross-purposes, half the time.” 


164 THE OPTIMIST 


“I can quite believe it.” 

“Of course, I’m not exactly afraid of him now, but 
it does make it a bit difficult to say what’s in one’s 
mind.” 

“That’s just the pity of it, Adrian. He always says 
that he does so wish you were more unreserved with 
him. He does very much want you to say what’s in 
your mind.” 

“But he wouldn’t like it if I did—in fact, he probably 
wouldn’t understand it.” 

Few things could be more incontrovertible. 

“The fact is that father has quite a wrong idea of 
me. He seems to expect me to have all the notions 
that he had, when he was a young high-brow at Ox- 
ford, about ninety years ago. As I told him, things 
have gone ahead a bit since then.”’ 

Lucilla, for her consolation, reflected that few peo- 
ple are capable of distinguishing accurately between 
what they actually say, and what they subsequently 
wish themselves to have said, when reporting a conver- 
sation. It was highly probable that Adrian had been 
a good deal less eloquent,than he represented himself 
to have been. 

“You didn’t say anything, did you, about your idea 
of taking Orders?” 

“No,” said Adrian rather curtly. “I did begin some- 
thing about it, just to show that I hadn’t been the 
unpractical ass he seemed to think I was, but he went 
off at the deep end almost directly. I said something 
about going into the Church, you see, and he didn’t 
wait for me to finish, but started away about our all 
being ‘in the Church’ from the day of our baptism, 


ADRIAN 165 


and so on—splitting hairs, I call it. As if everyone 
didn’t know what is generally meant by going into the 
Church.” 

“Well, in this case, I really hope he didn’t know. 
Flossie and I always told you that Father would be 
very much shocked at your way of looking at the 
priesthood.” 

“Anyhow, it’s all off now,” said Adrian gloomily. 
“There wouldn’t be the slightest object in it, and be- 
sides I’m thoroughly off religion at the moment, as I 
think I told you. No, I shall go to London.” 

Lucilla looked further inquiry. 

“No, I’m not going after Olga; you can be quite 
easy about that. In fact, I may say I don’t ever want 
to set eyes on her again, after the way she’s let me 
down. No, I’m going to try journalism, or something 
like that. Anyhow, I mean to be a free lance for a 
bit.” 

The first note of real resolution that Lucilla had 
heard there, crept into Adrian’s young voice. 

“Father really can’t go on running the show for me 
like this. It’s me that’s got to decide what to do with 
my life, and I’m going to get a bit of experience on 
my own. I know I had six months in France, but 
that isn’t going to be the whole of my life. In fact, 
Lucilla, I’ve decided, though I’m sorry in a way, to 
say such a thing, that Father has got to be taught a 
lesson, and it’s me that’s going to do the teaching.” 

Iron firmness, denoted by a closely compressed 
mouth and a rather defiant eye fixed glassily upon Lu- 
cilla’s, characterized Adrian’s announcement. 

“Listen,” said Lucilla. 


166 THE OPTIMIST 


They heard a heavy footfall, eloquent of weariness, 
outside the door. It was followed by the sound of an 
imperative tap. 

Adrian’s face relaxed and a more normal expression 
succeeded to the compelling one that had petrified his 
gaze. 

“Adrian, my son, are you there?” 

PACS La Enehas 

“Dear lad, how thoughtless you are! Your sister 
is tired, and it is already very late. Finish your talk 
tomorrow, my dear ones.” 

There was a pause. 

Then Adrian said: 

“Well, I suppose Time is on the wing, as usual. 
Good-night, Lucilla.” 

He went out. 

Lucilla heard the Canon bid him good-night, and his 
voice held profound sadness, rather than the vexation 
that she had feared. 

She moved swiftly to the door. 


“Father, I have found that reference in Origen.” 

The Canon’s face, drawn and tired, lightened on 
the instant. 

“My indefatigable searcher after truth! Lucilla in- 
deed casts light into dark places—you were well named, 
my daughter. That is good news indeed—good news 
indeed.”’ 

“Should you like me to come down again, or are 
you too tired?” 

“Nay, Lucilla, you heard me bid Adrian to his room. 
Would you have me transgress my own regulations? 


ADRIAN 167 


That would be inconsistent indeed. We will investi- 
gate our Origen tomorrow.” 

“You are so near the end of it now, Father.” 

“Aye, the work has progressed wonderfully these 
last few months. And I have been wonderfully blessed 
in your help, my child—my right hand! It has been a 
labour of love indeed.” 

Lucilla hoped that he would go to his room still 
cheered by the thought of the book. But the Canon 
lingered, to enquire sadly: 

“You have talked with Adrian?” 

arate.» 

“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his 
disappointment of his first fancy, but there is a want 
of stability—-what I can only call a levity of spirit— 
that distresses one beyond words. He was all submis- 
sion and deference, but there was not the spontaneous 
calling of deep unto deep that one somehow looked for. 
. . . And yet Adrian is the one of you all from whom 
I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the most ideal 
companionship. .. .” 

Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well. 

Not one of his other children had been treated with 
the indulgence that the Canon had always displayed 
towards his youngest born. 

The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her 
thoughts. 

“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It 
is not a strong character—but the strongest are not 
always the most lovable. He talks now of going to 
London.” 

“So he told me.” 


168 THE OPTIMIST 


“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy 
sigh. “I must bid you good-night, dear daughter. It 
is not right that you should be kept up in this fashion.” 

Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might. 

The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint. 

Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full 
of adamantine resolution in his absence. At meal 
times, the subjects to be avoided—which now included 
the Admastons, their theatricals, and the Duffle family, 
as well as Valeria’s marriage—seemed unduly numer- 
ous. In the evening, the Canon made a great and evi- 
dent effort, that struck Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to 
readjust matters. 

His show of laboured brightness could deceive no 
one, but Lucilla and Mr. Clover seconded his attempts 
at general conversation with determination, and Flora 
was not more silent than was her wont. Adrian, mani- 
festly sulky at first, awoke presently to a change in the 
atmosphere, and thereupon erred rather upon the side 
of garrulity than on that of restraint. 

His face darkened, however, when the Canon after 
dinner suddenly said with pseudo-heartiness : 

“T am about to call one of our old-time family coun- 
cils, young people. What say you, Adrian, to a little 
friendly discussion of your future plans? Time was, 
perhaps, when these things were settled rather in a 
long, heart-to-heart talk between father and son; but 
times change, and we must move with them—we must 
move with them.” 

It was impossible to doubt that the Canon was, or 
supposed himself to be, moving with the times rather 
in the hope of pleasing Adrian, than from any per- 


ADRIAN 169 


sonal liking for the direction in which they appeared 
to be taking him. 

“Perhaps some of these wiseacres may make a help- 
ful suggestion as to the future. Clover, you have been 
guide, philosopher and friend to us all this many a 
year. And Lucilla—Lucilla is gifted with a very level 
head, as I sometimes tell her—a very level head. As 
for my little Flora, whose head is sometimes in the 
clouds, at least those who say least see most, eh Flora? 
Let us to the with-drawing-room, children.” 


Seated in the lamp light, with Lucilla and Flora both i 
occupied with needle-work—the Canon had long ago 
decreed that no discussion need entail idle hands— 
Canon Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning 
against the marble mantel piece with an air of embar- 
rassment. 

“What are your wishes, dear lad—your hopes, your 
plans ?’” 

To this singularly comprehensive enquiry, Adrian 
seemed to find some difficulty in making an immediate 
reply. 

“Your father is very anxious—we’re all anxious,” 
said Mr. Clover pleadingly. 

“Why should you be?” Adrian demanded fretfully, 
turning sharply towards the curate. “I’m quite old 
enough to settle for myself what I’m going to do.” 

“But you haven’t settled it, Adrian,” said Lucilla 
mildly. 

“That is why we all want to help you, if possible,” 
the Canon observed. “Perhaps you may remember 
some words that I am very fond of, and that have 


170 ‘THE OPTIMIST 


found their way now and again into our pleasant con- 
fabulations on life and letters in general: 


There comes a tide in the affairs of men 
That, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. 


“There is, indeed, a higher Leading that I trust, and 
indeed know, you would none of you disregard, but 
opportunity may very often serve us as an indication— 
an indication. It seems to me, dear Adrian, that some 
such ‘tide’ has come in your affairs now, and it would 
be pleasant indeed to feel that, taken at the flood, it 
would lead on to fortune, in the best and highest sense 
of the word.” 

There was a pause, and then Mr. Clover said: 

“Or at least independence.”’ 

“That's what I want,’ said Adrian ungraciously. 
“Only never having been brought up to anything spe- 
cial, it’s a bit hard to know what to go in for.” 

“You said something about journalism,” Lucilla 
reminded him, aware that the word, which would cer- 
tainly be distasteful to the Canon, must be uttered 
sooner or later. 

Adrian looked at his sister, and not at his father, 
as he replied: 

“T think that’s really what I shall do.” 

“But who is going to employ you, Adrian?” Flora 
enquired with simplicity. 

The boy frowned. 

“You don’t understand these things. I shall just 
get up one or two things, and show them to the right 
people, and if they’re any good at all I shall get taken 
on somewhere.” 


~ ADRIAN 171 


“The Press is a great force for good as, alas, for 
evil, my son, but I confess that such a course would be 
a disappointment to me. Have you no other ambi- 
tion?” asked the Canon wistfully. 

“T can’t think of anything else, Father.” 

“T thought—” breathed Flora to Lucilla. 

Lucilla shook her head, in repudiation of Adrian’s 
erstwhile schemes of clerical life, and she heard from 
Flora a sigh that probably denoted relief. 


“Then, my dearest fellow, so be it. You know that 
we wish nothing but your highest good, and your 
happiness here and hereafter. I will increase your 
present allowance as far as I can do so without robbing 
others, and that should enable you to maintain yourself 
in London until you are earning enough to dispense 
with it. Have you any definite starting point in your 
mind ?” 

“Not yet, but I can write to a fellow I know. I say, 
Father—this is very good of you.” 

There was both surprise and genuine gratitude in 
Adrian’s voice. 


The Canon, entirely regardless of anyone else as he 
always was when deeply in earnest, rose and placed 
his hand on the young man’s shoulder. 


“I have no wish but your truest and highest good, 
dear lad, as I said before. If I have been weak enough 
to indulge in plans and fancies of my own, they shall 
not come between us now. I believe I may say that 
I have learnt at last that whatever is, is best. Let us 
go on, believing all things, hoping all things. . . . If 
there has been weakness in the past, dear Adrian, I 


172 THE OPTIMIST 


know that you will justify my confidence in the future, 
God helping you.”’ 

The Canon’s voice had grown husky over the last 
few words. He bent his head and gently and solemnly 
kissed Adrian’s forehead. 

Then he went out of the room. 


(iv) 


For many months after Adrian’s departure, the mo- 
notonous round of life at St. Gwenllian remained 
undisturbed. 

News came from Canada of the birth of a son to 
Valeria, and the Canon’s last resentment vanished, al- 
though he still spoke of ‘‘our poor Valeria.” 

He derived unmistakable satisfaction from Owen 
Quentillian’s presence at Stear, and the young man 
received frequent invitations to the Vicarage, after a 
first visit during which the host suffered infinitely more 
than the guest, in the fear of reviving past associations. 

Adrian wrote occasionally, giving no very encour- 
aging accounts of his progress in journalism, and con- 
tinued to receive the increased allowance that his father 
sent him with scrupulous regularity. He did not come 
home again, even in the summer. 

Then one day the Canon, at his writing-table, laid 
down his pen and said to Lucilla: 

“Nunc dimittis.. . . . My book is done, Lucilla; 
I can add no more to it. It has been a long task, and 
at times a heavy one, for the flesh is weak—for all that 
the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. But it is over 


bP) 


now. 


ADRIAN 173 


His rapt, smiling gaze held Lucilla’s for a long 
while, as she smiled back her congratulation. 


“And now, my dear one, to give our work to the 
world!” He rubbed his hands together exultantly. 
“For it is yours, Lucilla, almost as much as mine.” 


She shook her head, still smiling. The Canon’s 
generosity, any more than his occasional injustice, did 
not blind his daughter to the bald facts of a case as 
she saw it. 

A shadow was across her genuine participation in 
his joy, now. 

“What shall you do with it, Father?” 

“There is no more to be done,” repeated the Canon. 
“All is copied, all is corrected. Your typescript is 
admirable, Lucilla, and I trust that my few emenda- 
tions have not defaced it.” 

“Then is it going to the publishers?” 

“My practical Lucilla! Is your mind already in 
search of an adequate supply of brown paper and seal- 
ing wax? These things are not done so hastily as 
impetuous youth would wish, however. There will be 
a preliminary correspondence, my dear, even when I[ 
have definitely decided which of the publishing houses 
to approach. A work such as this one, which has taken 
years of labour, is not sent lightly forth to take its 
chance, as might be a work of fiction.” 

The Canon laid his hand lovingly upon the immense 
pile of typescript before him. It represented, as he 
had said, the labour of years. 

“Owen is in touch with several publishers, I believe.”’ 

“Possibly so, Lucilla.” The Canon’s tone was not 


174 THE OPTIMIST 


altogether pleased. ‘“‘But such a work—on such a sub- 
ject—requires no casual introduction.” 

Lucilla wondered, not without foreboding, what it 
did require. Owen Quentillian, who shared her own 
inability to take optimistic views on principle, had 
spoken discouragingly of the modern market for such 
works as the Canon’s on “Leonidas of Alexandria.” 

The Canon himself appeared to entertain no mis- 
givings, until a few weeks later, when he handed a 
letter silently to Lucilla. 

It was a courteously worded assurance from the 
most eminent of theological publishing firms that the 
probable sales of such a work as “Leonidas of Alex- 
andria’’ would not, in their opinion, justify the ex- 
penses of publication. 

The Canon seemed more bewildered than dismayed. 

“T shall approach the Oxbridge Press,” he declared. 
“T had decided against them, but this very unexpected 
attitude leaves me no alternative.” 

The reply of the Oxbridge Press, although longer 
delayed, was almost identical in substance with that 
of its predecessors. 

“T do not understand it,” the Canon repeated, and 
wrote to another publishing house. 

He still spoke as though the ultimate appearance of 
the book were a certainty; even when confronted with 
a third refusal, but he allowed Lucilla to consult Owen 
Quentillian. 

As the result of a letter to Quentillian’s own pub- 
lishers, an offer came from them to produce “Leonidas 
of Alexandria” if the author would advance a sub-. 
stantial sum towards the cost of bringing out the book. 


ADRIAN LA5 


“Tt’s more than I dared to hope for,’’ Owen told 
Lucilla candidly, in private. “Only I’m afraid he'll 
still be disappointed, if the book appears and makes no 
stir.” 

“He has thought of it for so many years,” said 
Lucilla. 


“And always as a magnum opus—something that 
the world would recognize?” 


“Ves, I think so. But even so, I’m not certain 
whether he’ll accept these terms.”’ 


“He won't get better ones,’ said Owen with con- 
viction. 

They awaited the Canon’s reply. It came, calm and 
very decided. 

“Tt cannot be. It is not within my power to accept 
the terms suggested. Thank you, Owen, my dear— 
and you Lucilla—but my work must await better days 
—hbetter days.” 

For the first time, Owen was struck by the singular 
sweetness of the Canon’s smile, as he stood with his 
hand resting on the great bulk of papers that stood 
to him for the loving preoccupation of many years. 
No faintest touch of bitterness accompanied his deep 
disappointment. 

“T have had the great pleasure of the work, and 
it has brought me into close association with many 
writers, both living and dead. We have derived 
great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits 
of reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. 
You remember the old story of the dying man who 
bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the apple- 
tree. They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile 


176 THE OPTIMIST 


earth was their reward—their own industry proved to 
be their treasure. If it is to be so with my book, I am 
content.”’ 

Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes 
kept him silent, but Lucilla said: 

“Ts it any use to try another publisher?” 

The Canon shook his grey head. 

“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. 
No doubt times have changed, and there is no longer 
the same interest taken in these researches. The wheel 
will come round in due course, young people, and I 
make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the 
world, in God’s good time whether in my day or not. 
I am very well content.” 

He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which 
he turned the key. 


“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon 
my front page—‘dd majorem Dei gloriam’? Surely 
we can trust the fulfilment of those words to Him, 
and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in 
the notoriety of a day. We will say no more about 
this, children.” 

He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again. 

“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank 
about. I will not deny a natural disappointment, but it 
is no more than that—no more than that. These 
things pass ns 

Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said 
more. The one revelation that he did make, hardly 
surprised her. 

“All else apart, I could not have paid the money to 
that publishing firm. The dear Adrian must be my 


ADRIAN 177 


first consideration at present, and with the increased 
amount that he is receiving, the drain upon my purse 
is too heavy to admit of a personal gratification. Some 
day the dear fellow will pay it all back, I make no 
doubt, though even were it not so—but it will be so. 
And now, Lucilla, we will drop the subject. What I 
have told you is between ourselves, and we need not 
refer to it again.” 

A very little while later, the Canon began to make 
minute and elaborate notes for a Commentary on the 
Epistle to the Philippians. 

Lucilla, according to her wont, acted as his secretary 
without comment. 


It was more difficult, however, to pursue this course 
when the Canon, with a look of distress and perplexity, 
handed to her several closely-written sheets of paper, 
and observed : 


“As you know, I hold very strongly ‘to the sacred- 
ness of personal correspondence. It was, indeed, at 
least partly on that account that I have said nothing 
to you of a letter from Adrian that has caused me some 
anxiety. He seems to me to be getting amongst a set 
of people whom I can only call undesirable. They 
may be leading him into foolish extravagance—I fear 
it must be so. It seems to me my clear duty to write 
to the boy very frankly, but God knows how carefully 
I have weighed every word, for fear of saying too 
much. I believe I am justified in letting you read it. 
A sister’s influence can do much, more especially when 
she has been obliged to enact the part of mother, and it 
may even be that Adrian will listen to you more readily 
than to me.” 


178 THEOREMS: 


The Canon sighed heavily. 

Although his sudden, sharp outbursts of anger had, 
at one time or another, included each and every one of 
his children, his tolerance was always longest where 
Adrian was concerned. So, too, was his profound dis- 
tress when the shortcomings of his youngest-born 
were made only too manifest. 


Lucilla read the letter with considerable inward dis- 
quiet. 


“My DraREsT ADRIAN, 


“First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which 
you must at once discharge outstanding liabilities. You 
must not, however, take this as an easy method of get- 
ting out of difficulties into which you have placed 
yourself. I shall stop this money out of your allow- 
ance, in justice both to yourself and to me, in quar- 
terly instalments. And now, my son, you must bear 
with me while I write of several things that seem to 
me to be much amiss in your present way of life. Your 
letters are so far from explicit (how I wish it were 
otherwise!) that one can only guess at much which 
is left unsaid, but your request for money, however 
veiled, is an admission in itself. You write of ‘others,’ 
but can you not see that it is absolute dishonesty to 
give presents, stand host at various small outings, and 
the like, when this implies the spending of money 
that I give you for one purpose, on quite another? 
No one knows better than myself the pleasure to be de- 
rived from such little attentions to those whose kind- 
ness calls for recognition, or to whom we feel drawn 
by sympathy, and before whom we perhaps like to 


ADRIAN 179 


pose in the light of a benefactor. Such gratifications 
are harmless, and may even be beneficial, in them- 
selves, but they are at present amongst the things 
which you must learn to deny yourself. How I wish 
I could say this, instead of writing it! Could you not 
come to us for a few days, and we would thrash all 
these matters out together as one can only do in a long, 
téte-a-téte evening talk over the fire, or perhaps a ten- 
mile tramp far out into the country. Let me know 
what hope there is of your getting down here, and 
when. 


“Tn regard to the question of returning hospitality, it 
does seem to me a most moot point how far such obli- 
gations should bind us. Certainly they should not do 
so if entailing interference with work or prayer. You 
say nothing on these points, so do consider this ques- 
tion next time you write. It is so disappointing to re- 
ceive short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing 
of yourself, and with questions in home letters left un- 
answered. Do write more fully of yourself—I am so 
much disturbed about you, and cannot understand why 
you should say that you have “nothing to write about.” 
All is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, 
and you tell us so little! You give no account of your 
Sundays, spiritual experiences, private readings and the 
like, but if this does not come spontaneously, it is of 
no use to try and force it. 

“T should like to hear something, however, of your 
friends. With whom do you work, spend your Sun- 
days, evening leisure hours, etc.? All these details 
would be of the greatest interest, and, although one has 
no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case, 


180 THE*OP FIMIST 


they are points upon which your father has every right 
to information. 

“Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in 
the Athene? Owen Quentillian brought it to my 
notice, supposing me, naturally, to be aware of its 
authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly 
written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, 
but you have a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where 
you make “etomology’ do duty for ‘entomology.’ If 
this is a printer's error, and you did not correct the 
proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to it at 
once. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I think, 
incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify 
at present. He is not a writer about whom I care. Do 
you read much of him?” 


At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said 
emphatically : 


“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Prob- 
ably he got the verse he quotes out of a book of quota- 
tions.” 

The Canon looked surprised. 

“T am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but 
Adrian’s knowledge of French is much above the 
average. Our evening readings aloud have seen to 
that.” 

Lucilla picked up tne sheets of paper again, wonder- 
ing if there was very much more of the letter to come 
—a wonder not infrequently felt by those with whom 
Canon Morchard was in correspondence. 

“Do eschew the use of slang absolutely, at least in 
writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this 
heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and so 


ADRIAN 181 


ugly! These criticisms, if such they be, are only the 
outcome, need I tell you, of my really intense desire 
that you should do full justice to yourself, and to the 
talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat 
again, my dearest lad, that this applies doubly to the 
more serious fault-finding that I have been obliged, as 
your father, to put into this letter. You must write to 
me fully and freely if it seems to you that anything 
which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your 
own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, 
will endorse all that I have written. In that case, you 
will know well where to seek for the unfailing strength 
necessary to a fresh beginning and a full confession of 
error. 

“T cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await 
your answer, and do make it a really open-hearted one, 
as I well know that you can. There shall be no cloud 
upon our meeting when we do meet, once things have 
been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that 
for your own sake, far more than for mine, this 
strange reticence on your part must not continue. 


“Look upon me as your best earthly friend, dear lad, 
as well as your father, for no one can be more eager 
to sympathize with you on every point than I am— 
and have always been. It has always seemed to me 
that the relationship of father and son could—and 
should—be an utterly ideal one. 

“My love to you, as always, and do write at once. 
I must not end this without reminding you that busi- 
ness-like habits, which I am so anxious that you should 
acquire, make it obligatory to acknowledge a cheque by 
return of post, even were there not other reasons for 


182 DHEAOR TINGS TE 


writing without delay. Anything that you wish treated 
as confidential will of course be sacred—but that you 
know already. 
“Tn all lovingness, dear Adrian, I remain your most 
devoted father, 
“RD Lovie 


“Can I say more?” the Canon enquired sadly and 
anxiously, as Lucilla laid down the letter. To which 
Lucilla, with restraint, replied by a bald negative. 


“T have weighed every word,” her father repeated, 
with, as she knew, only too much truth. 

“Perhaps Adrian may feel that you are taking him 
too seriously altogether. He sometimes seems Ki 





“Whom, and what, should I take seriously if not my 
son, and his earthly and eternal welfare?” the Canon 
interrupted her rather sternly. “You take a great deal 
upon yourself, Lucilla, in speaking so. No doubt you 
say to yourself: ‘I am young, I am of the period, it 
is for me to act as interpreter between the parent, who 
is of another generation, and the youth, who belongs 
to mine.” But if I read your thought correctly, my 
child—and I have no doubt that I do—it is an ar- 
rogant one, and altogether unworthy of you.” 


Lucilla did not explain that no such determination 
had crossed her mind as the self-sufficient one ascribed 
to her. She was aware, in common with all the 
Canon’s children, that he was prone to attribute to 
them occasionally motives and attitudes of mind 
strangely and almost incredibly alien to anything to 
which they could ever reasonably lay claim. Far more 


ADRIAN 183 


often, did he credit them with aspirations and inten- 
tions of a quite undeserved sublimity. 

Her inward fear, that Adrian would probably leave 
the major part of his father’s letter unread, she did 
not put into words. 

“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, 
and I shall make a point of asking him to see our dear 
fellow and bring me a full report,” said the Canon. 

He proffered his request shortly afterwards to 
Quentillian, by whom it was received with no enthusi- 
asm whatever. 

“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully 
conscious that Adrian would not. 

“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. 
“It is just because we feel you to be so thoroughly 
one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am asking you to 
act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were 
he at home.” 

Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of 
elation with which Quentillian took his departure, 
under the new honour thus thrust upon him. 

There was a certain rueful amusement under his 
discomfiture when he left St. Gwenllian. 

On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any 
lurking amusement had been stifled under a perfectly 
real anxiety. 

“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she 
mechanically made her preparations at the tea-table for 
the Canon’s entrance. 

“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, 
about Adrian.” 

“Ts he ill?” said Flora. 


184 CHEF ORTIVT ST 


“No. I’m sorry if I frightened you. He has taken 
up some work that I’m afraid the Canon will disap- 
prove of—on the staff of Hale’s paper.” 

“What is that?” Flora asked, with grave, innocent 
eyes. 

But Lucilla said at once: ‘“That’s the new review 
that has been so very much criticized for its attitude 
towards the Church, isn’t it?” 

He nodded. 

“Oh!” Flora caught her breath, and her delicate 
face expressed the violent and instinctive recoil of her 
spirit. 

Owen looked at Lucilla. 

Her indignation took a line that was not altogether 
what he had expected. 

“Well, surely Adrian need not have found a way 
of asserting his independence that must run counter to 
everything Father has ever taught!” 

“He isn’t exactly doing it out of the spirit of oppo- 
sition. Hale has taken a fancy to him, and it’s the 
first chance Adrian has had of regular, paid work. 
From a worldly point of view, he’d be a fool not to 
have accepted it.” 

“A worldly point of view!” echoed Flora. “One 
doesn’t expect that in Father’s son, somehow.” 

Theoretically, Quentillian felt, one didn’t. 

“Surely Adrian isn’t capable of controversial writ- 
ing?” Flora added, with a severity that saw apparently 
nothing humourous in the suggestion. 

“Nothing of that sort will be required of him. He 
will only write light articles, like that thing you saw in 
the Athene. The point is that he is working for a man 


ADRIAN 185 


like Hale, whose reputation—which is fairly consider- 
able in its own way—rests entirely upon his very antt- 
clerical attitude.” 

“But how can Adrian reconcile that with his duty as 
a Church member ?”’ said Flora tersely. 

“T didn’t ask him,” was Quentillian’s equally terse 
reply. 

They all three remained silent. 

“Ts Adrian going to write to Father, or has he 
written already?” Flora asked at last. 

“He hasn’t written.” 

Lucilla’s short-sighted gaze, with the rather intent 
look characteristic of a difficulty in focussing, rested 
for a moment upon Quentillian’s face. Then she asked 
quietly : 

“Did he ask you to tell Father for him?” 

percdids 

“How like Adrian,” said Luciila. 

She made the statement very matter-of-factly, but 
Quentillian knew it to be none the less a condemnation. 

“There was—is—no chance of making Adrian give 
it up?” Flora asked. 

“None, I should think, at present. Hale is a man 
of great personality, and Adrian is a good deal flat- 
tered, naturally enough, at being taken up by him. Of 
course he knows as well as you or I that it’s the thing 
of all others to distress the Canon most. He’s genu- 
inely upset about it, in a way, but he struck me as being 
rather childishly bent on showing that he can strike 
out a line of his own.” 

“Poor, poor Father! He has had so much to bear 
lately. Must he be told?” said Flora, 


186 THE ORDIMIST 


“Of course he must. But I don’t think Owen is the 
person to do the telling. Adrian should do it himself.” 

“So I told him,” Quentillian observed rather grimly. 
“The utmost I could get out of him was a very short 
note, that I am to give to the Canon when he knows 
the facts.” 

No comment followed the announcement of so slen- 
der an achievement, and they were sitting in silence 
when Canon Morchard came in. 

He greeted Owen Quentillian affectionately, as he 
‘always did, but said quickly: 

“IT am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, 
dear fellow. No matter. We will have our talk later. 
Let us forget grave subjects, and partake of ‘the cup 
that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there has 
ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?” 

In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, 
was at least gravely cheerful. 

Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm 
laid across the young man’s shoulders in the fashion 
that he so often adopted. 

They remained out for a long while. 

Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, 
when it was evident that a weight of unhappiness had 
descended upon him. 

He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the 
room. 

“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you 
should know the very grievous news I have learnt to- 
day. Adrian has definitely adopted a career which 
must cut him off from those of us who are living 
members of the Church. He has cast in his lot with 


ADRIAN 187 


an enemy of the Church—a man who makes his living, 
and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by attacking 
the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a 
friendship with this man—he is working for him, 
writing for his paper.” 

The Canon’s voice broke. 

“T am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead 
with him, but I have little hope. He does not answer 
the letters that I write with such yearning anxiety and 
love—I have lost my influence over him. If it is, as 
I fear, then—‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ 
My dear children, I ask you to join with me here and 
now in intercession for our erring one.” 

He broke down, and the tears ran down his face. 

It was as though Adrian’s defection cost him a dou- 
ble pang: that to his own fatherhood, and that to the 
ministry of the Church which he felt to be such a 
living reality. 


IIT 


DAVID AND FLORA 
(i) 


“Tr cannot be, my dear,” the Canon repeated. So 
inexorable was his voice, in all its kindness, that his 
daughter Flora felt that it could not, indeed be. 

But it was Lucilla who had launched the “it” in 
question, and it was to Lucilla that the parental negative 
had been already addressed no less than three times. 

“Tf I am thus patient with this strange persistence 
of yours, Lucilla,’ said the Canon, his voice deepening 
after a fashion which indicated not at all obscurely 
that he might not continue to be patient very much 
longer, “if I am thus patient, it is because I do you 
the justice to believe that it is sisterly affection for 
our poor Valeria and her little one, and not a mere 
restless desire for change, that has induced you to 
put forward this astonishing proposal. But consider 
the folly and selfishness of this scheme, my child. You 
propose to spend money— which we can ill afford, any 
of us—and sacrifice time and strength in a wild rush 
overseas, an insensate dash through an unknown coun- 
try, in search of your sister’s new home. No doubt 
you say to yourself ‘I am the winged Messenger of the 
Gods. I fly to take help and comfort to our erring one. 

188 


DAVID AND FLORA 189 


I will assist this new little life that is coming into the 
world.’ You picture to yourself a triumphal progress 
—a rapturous welcome—the acclamations of a New 
World. But you deceive yourself, Lucilla. You de- 
ceive yourself grossly.” 

Flora felt herself colouring as she bent over her 
needlework. A display of violent emotion as that into 
which Canon Morchard was now working himself by 
force of his own eloquence, was always distasteful to 
her, and she felt a vicarious shame for Lucilla, con- 
victed of such presumptuous flights of fancy. 

Flora was astonished at the calm of her sister’s re- 
ply, when it came. 

“But I don’t, Father. I hadn’t any idea of doing 
anything but travelling to Canada in the ordinary way, 
and being with Val when her new baby arrives. You 
know, it is dreadfully soon after her first one, and she 
really isn’t iY 

“Have a care, Lucilla! Who are you to question 
the time and seasons appointed by the All-seeing Wis- 
dom for the bestowal of the infinite blessing of chil- 
dren: 

If Lucilla represented an infinite blessing to Canon 
Morchard, the fact was not over evident at the moment. 
His brow was thunderous as he gazed at her. 

“Tt is Valeria’s own choice that has sent her into a 
far country. She might have been at our very gates, 
had she but willed it so.”’ 

“Well,” said Lucilla reasonably. “TI don’t think if 
Val had been so near us as all that, she would have 
written and begged one of us to come to her. It’s 
just because she’s out there, such a long way off, and 





190 THE OPTIMIST 


with no one to help her, that she’s frightened. Why, 
she may not even be able to get a servant.” 

“Poor child!’ The Canon’s voice softened. “The 
way of transgressors is hard. But two wrongs never 
yet made a right, Lucilla. I recognize the generous 
impulse that moves you—if I spoke sharply just now, 
it was only from my intense wish to see you do justice 
to your own really noble character, my child. Believe 
me, your duty lies here, in the state to which it has 
pleased God to call you.” 

Lucilla’s brows contracted slightly, after her short- 
sighted fashion, but it was not at all with an effect 
of vexation, but rather of some slight perplexity. 

At last she said: 

“Could Flora go?” 

Flora, startled, looked at her father. For a moment 
it occurred to her that perhaps he would be willing 
to spare her. Her heart leapt at the thought of seeing 
Val, and Val’s babies. A vista of new experiences, of 
hitherto undreamed-of independence, startled even 
whilst it pleasantly excited her. 

Then her father said: “My dear, of what are you 
thinking? Your zealous desire to befriend one sister 
makes you strangely inconsiderate of the other. Flora 
is neither accustomed to responsibility, nor is she very 
robust in health. Certainly, were it a clear question 
of duty, one could put all that aside—but the call would 
have to be unmistakable, the leading beyond all ques- 
tion. I can see no such indications here.”’ 

Flora, quietly bent over her needle-work once more, 
was ashamed of the realization that she was disap- 
pointed. 


DAVID AND FLORA 191 


Inwardly, she offered instant expiation for the re- 
bellious moment, consciously addressing herself to the 
personal Divinity by whom, she had always been taught, 
every hair of her head was numbered. 

The reflection came, in immediate consolation, that 
she was not without her spiritual glory, by this very 
act of resignation. 

“They also serve who only stand and wait,’ she 
thought. 

The Canon had often quoted this to Flora, and in- 
deed to any of his children who showed a desire for 
alien activities. 

Flora might be said to have stood and waited for 
some time now. It occurred to her that if Lucilla 
went to Canada, responsibilities at home, other than 
passive ones, would become her own portion. The 
thought did not displease her. Flora, too, though far 
less consciously than Valeria, had sometimes glimpsed 
the sterility of her days. 

“Lucilla, you know where to seek counsel, I believe,” 
said. Canon Morchard gravely. “I make all due allow- 
ance for your natural, loving impulse towards our poor 
Valeria—all due allowance. If your heart bleeds for 
her, how much more does not mine? But there are 
times when we must do violence to our natural feelings 
and I believe that some such necessity is upon you 
now. Deny yourself, my daughter, and He will bless 
the sacrifice both to you and to our dear one far 
away.” 

“But who will look after her when her baby is 
born?” said Lucilla reflectively. 

“Lucilla, where is your trust?” 


192 THE OPTIMIST 


“Mostly in myself, I think,” said Lucilla gently. 
“T really shouldn’t feel it right not to go to Val, Father. 
I hope you will forgive me.” She spoke so gently, 
with so simple a note of sincere regret in her quiet 
voice, that the Canon, to Flora’s perceptions, appeared 
to overlook the slightly blasphemous implication in the 
first words of her sentence. 

“No man is more averse than myself from tamper- 
ing with another’s conscience,’ he said, with gravity 
and displeasure. “You are no longer a child, Lucilla, 
but have a care lest self-will should blind you. I have 
long since warned you of the danger of self-com- 
placency. I lay no commands upon you, but I do most 
earnestly beg, my child, that you will submit your own 
judgment to a higher Tribunal than any earthly one, 
before coming to any decision. Commune with your 
own heart, Lucilla, and be sure that self-seeking is 
not lurking under the guise of loving-kindness.” 

The Canon went out of the room and Flora and 
Lucilla were left together. 

It was evident that Lucilla saw no urgent necessity 
for complying with her father’s advice and communing 
with her own heart. She sat down at her writing-table, 
wrote for a few moments, and read over what she had 
written. Then she handed the half-sheet of notepaper 
to Flora. 

It bore the announcement that a lady wishing shortly 
to travel to Canada, would give her services on the 
journey in return for part passage. 

“But you mean to go, then?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“T thought Father advised you to think it over?” 


DAVID AND FLORA 193 


“T did think it over. Didn’t you hear me say just 
now that I should think it wrong not to go to Val?” 

“You are setting your own judgment up above 
Father’s,” Flora pointed out coldly. 

“T suppose so,” Lucilla assented, seeming rather 
surprised, as though such an aspect of the case had not 
hitherto presented itself to her. 

Flora softened. 

“T can’t help being glad you’re going to be with poor 
Val when she wants you. And oh, Lucilla! You'll 
see little Georgie!” 

“J know. I wish you could, too.” 

“So do I.” She suddenly caught her breath. “Not 
that I should do what you’re doing, for a moment. 
I don’t see how you can, in direct opposition to Father’s 
advice.” 

“T’m sorry you see it like that,” said Lucilla gently. 
“Now, Flora, as I may have to take my passage when I 
can get it, without much notice, I’d like to arrange one 
or two things with you. Would you like me to give 
Ethel a month’s notice? She’s a bad housemaid, but if 
you'd rather she stayed on till if 

“Lucilla, you talk as though it were all settled!’ 

“My dear, it zs all settled. I told you that my mind 
was made up.” 

“You know that Father will miss you most terribly ? 
And, though he never speaks about it, he still grieves 
dreadfully over Adrian.” 

“IT know. That hasn't really got anything to do with 
it, though, has it? If you keep on Ethel, you will have 
to make certain that she——”’ 

“T can’t talk about Ethel now, Lucilla. I’ll do the 





194 DAE OR GIN ESL 


best I can, if you really do go. Don’t think I’m un- 
kind, please. I do understand that it must be a great 
temptation, after poor Val’s letter saying how much 
she wants you. I daresay if she’d written like that to 
me,” said Flora with an effort, “that I might have felt 
it dreadfully difficult to refuse to go to her.” 

Lucilla paused on her way to the door, and looked at 
her sister with friendly, reflective interest. 

“But you would have refused?” 


“Tsn’t it always safest,” said Flora diffidently, and 
yet with the implacable certainty of rightness, too, 
“isn't it always safest, when there’s a choice—or what 
looks like a choice—to do whatever one likes least ?”’ 

“Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice. 

She opened the door. 


“No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. 
You'll let me know about Ethel as soon as you can, 
won’t you? Her month's trial will be up next Wednes- 
day.” 

“Lucilla!” 

“T’m coming, Father.” 

She went. 

Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her 
hands, allowing her thoughts to wander. 

Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of 
another might prove to be one’s own opportunity, come 
at last? She felt herself to have striven for so long 
with the endeavour to prove faithful in that which was 
least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, 
more heroic task should be set her. She had always 
felt herself to be “little Flora” to her father, a child, to 
be petted and sheltered, and in the minute introspection 


DAVID AND FLORA 195 


of a nightly examination of conscience, she had 
frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrate- 
ful longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded 
into the shielding. If Lucilla went away, their father 
would be alone, deserted except for Flora. David was 
in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of 
coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, al- 
ways his favourite sister, were neither confidential nor 
frequent. Val was married, in Canada, and was claim- 
ing Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, in 
London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. 
Gwenllian but it was known to all his children that 
the Canon would not again receive Adrian at home 
until he should have severed all connection with the 
atheist, Hale. 

How they had failed their father, all of them! 
Flora resolved passionately that she herself would 
never fail him. Prayer was the form of self expres. 
sion most natural to her, and she made ardent inward 
supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow 
her own way, good might come of it, and she herself 
prove worthy of her sacred filial charge. No such 
exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when Lucilla’s 
decision had been openly accepted, and her preparat- 
tions begun. 

She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and 
her conversation was rather more severely practical 
than before. 


“Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own 
possession, Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids 
are trustworthy, but it’s no use breaking rules,” 


And: 


196 THE OPTIMIST 


“Remember wot to order anything eggy when Mr. 
Clover comes to a meal. He can’t eat eggs.” 


“I mean to do my very best for everyone while 
you're away. But of course it won’t be the same for 
Father.”’ 

“T expect it will, if you’re careful,’ said Lucilla 
kindly. “Don’t let her put flavourings into everything, 
though—he can’t bear them.” | 


She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material 
considerations. 


Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without 
any of that aspect of remorse which Flora privately 
considered that she ought to have worn. 


The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said 
at the last moment: 


“T hope and believe that you children understand 
what is meant by large-mindedness, and that I myself 
am the last man in the world to deny to each individual 
the right of an independent judgment. You are act- 
ing according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am will- 
ing—nay, eager—to believe in the sincerity of your 
motives. God bless you, my dearest one, and prosper 
your mission.” 


Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all 
emotional, Flora was always undemonstrative by in- 
stinct, and it was only the Canon whose eyes were 
moist, and whose voice shook. 

Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after 
a moment and spoke very firmly. 


“You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no re- 
proach for Lucilla. She is leaving home against my 


DAVID AND FLORA 197 


advice, against my wishes. I believe that she deceives 
herself. But Lucilla means well—she means well. As 
we go through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very 
patient, to understand better what is meant by for- 


giveness ‘unto seventy times seven’. 

He smiled at her. 

“You and I must have some pleasant téte-a-téte 
evenings, Flora, now that we are left to bear one an- 
other company. I should like to rub up some of my 
old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task 
as Dante’s Paradiso for our leisure time?” 

Flora assented, gratified. 

Their days fell into a routine that suited her well, 
and although in her daily and nightly prayers Flora 
mentioned the names of both Adrian and Lucilla as 
candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really con- 
scious of any very earnest personal wish for the return 
of either to St. Gwenllian. 


(ii) 


“On the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, 
David, beloved elder son of Canon Morchard of St. 
Gwenllian Vicarage a 

Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he 
read the announcement, with a strong sense of shock. 

Why should David Morchard die? 

He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesi- 
tation, to Flora Morchard. 

As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more 
than the Canon’s numerous pages. 


198 THE OPTIMIST 


“My Drar OWEN: 

“Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would 
be sorry, and would understand what this must be to 
my father, and all of us. He is so brave and good, and 
everyone is kindness itself. We do not know anything 
at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from 
the Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be 
another three weeks before letters can reach us. If 
you like, I will write again when they do. We shall 
want to see you very much when you get back to Stear. 
Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be 
a comfort to him to see you again. 

“Yours sincerely, 
“FLoRA MorCHARD.” 


The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered sev- 
eral pages, and he, like Flora, but at far greater length, 
emphasized the kindness shown to him. 

“My people here have shown feeling such as I 
dare hardly dwell upon, lest I overset altogether such 
composure as I may have won. Some of them, of 
course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young 
though he was when he left us. But even those who 
never knew him speak such words as well-nigh break 
one’s heart with gratitude and pity and tenderness. I 
tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, 
Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be 
repining, to have had but one day—one hour—together, 
before this blow fell! It was so long since we had 
spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him for 
his long silences, for the absence of the details that one 
longed for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how 


DAVID AND FLORA wD 


could I, I now ask myself sadly, who will receive 
no more letters from him again. How one learns to 
be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when 
each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back 
to break one’s heart! And yet, Owen, who could have 
thought that J should be left, who have seen nigh on 
three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad taken in 
the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways 
are not our ways. 

“It does not bear writing of. We must have many 
long talks together, when you are with us again. What 
a contrast to that first visit of yours, Owen, when our 
numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that first, 
great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is 
gone, could realize. At least, their mother has one 
with her! 

“When you first came to us after the war, it was to 
give us direct news of our beloved boy. I seem to re- 
member some merry gatherings then, with Lucilla and 
Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and bright- 
ness—I can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not 
—the old wound is healed now?—and Adrian still the 
veriest boy, the light and sunshine of the house. 

“You will find change and stillness and emptiness 
about the old place, now. All are scattered, only Flora 
left in the empty nest. I can find no words to tell you 
what she has been, Owen. Friend, companion, daugh- 
ter, comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla 
are the two who have never failed me, never failed 
their own higher selves. And Lucilla, as you know, 
is away from us at present. Poor child! What a 
punishment for her self-will in leaving us, 


200 THE OPTIMIST 


“Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every 
possible way these days, and whilst I have them, I can 
indeed never think myself wholly desolate. Letters will 
not reach us yet awhile from India, and one longs, and 
yet. dreads, to receive them. There may be one from 
our poor lad himself—yet why do I call him ‘poor,’ 
when he is so far more blest than we who are left? We 
can only conjecture that cholera or fever struck him 
down, he said nothing of sickness in his last letter, and 
whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful 
suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the In- 
finite Mercy allowed him time to meet the dread King 
of Terrors as one knows that he would have wished 
to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours. 

“T have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my 
heart is too full. Let me answer it in person. Both 
Flora and I look for your return with eagerness and 
hope to persuade you to come to us at least for a day 
or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long 
since you and he met. How I envy you that meeting 
now! We have heard of it all in detail, I know, but 
you will have patience, and go over it all once more 
with us. The only thing that gives one courage to 
face the present (saving always that far-reaching Com- 
fort which one knows to be there, but which poor hu- 
manity cannot always feel) is a mournful, tender lin- 
gering over the past. Nor must you fear that I always 
weep, dear Owen—there is often absolute rest and joy 
in dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to 
be only a shadow and faint forecasting of the Joy that 
is to come. 

“Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so 


DAVID AND FLORA 201 


little of thanks for all the sympathy and understanding 
in your dear letter, do not think of me as anything 
but profoundly touched and grateful. . 
“Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours, 
“FENWICK MORCHARD.” 


Quentillian folded the letter and put it away. 

He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken 
house, and his heart contracted strangely. 

Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. 
Her heart was given to her new life, to her new coun- 
try. Lucilla was with her. Adrian—the Adrian of 
the Canon’s tender love and pride—had never been. 
David, who had not wanted to come home, who had 
left “long intervals” between his scanty letters—David 
was dead. 

There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian. 

He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, 
either devoid of capability for human emotion, or re- 
garding emotional display as rebellion against Heaven. 
He had never known which. Flora would move about 
the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give 
the orders, and remember the sane, everyday things 
that must be done. She would be helped by the eager, 
anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember things, 
too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in 
silence. He would suggest, and remind, and humbly 
and timidly deprecate his own efforts. 

Quentillian could see the Canon, too. 

The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he 
would break down, with gusts of overwhelming sor- 
row and bitter remorse for his own want of resigna- 


202 THE) OP TIMiS A 


tion. He would write, and write, and write, in the 
lonely study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving 
his realest comfort from the outward expression of his 
grief. 

Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it 
as the interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete 
as his own. 

Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It 
was all very much as he had pictured it to himself. 
Only Flora was a little, a very little, less remote than 
he had expected to find her. 

He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the let- 
ters from India, and feared their effect upon her 
father. 

When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and 
said that David Morchard had died in hospital of 
dysentery after three days illness. The colonel of the 
regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted ab- 
ruptly, and a parcel of effects was promised. 

There was no more. 

“Such letters have become so sadly common in the 
last few years,” said the Canon wistfully. “How can 
one hope that in each individual case the writer will 
realize the yearning with which one looks for one 
personal touch—one word to show that all was well.” 

“Perhaps they will write from the hospital—the 
chaplain or the matron,—when they send the things,” 
Quentillian suggested. 

He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the 
reticence of the letters. 


Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him 
nothing of her feelings. 


DAVID AND FLORA 203 


But the day following brought him enlightenment 
from Flora herself. 

They were sent out for a walk together. 

“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon 
solicitously. ‘Flora is pale, and cold. She has shut 
herself up too much of late. Go, my child, I shall 
do very well, and can find only too much to occupy 
me. Enjoy the fresh air.” 

Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy 
herself, nor any assumption of indispensability at 
home. It was the Canon, again, who suggested an 
errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced with- 
out comment. 

It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses 
of cloud and a chill in the wind. Flora and Owen 
walked quickly, and at first neither spoke. Then Flora 
said: 

“How much, exactly, were you a friend of 
David's?” 

His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh 
how very seldom it was that Flora initiated any topic 
of a personal nature. 

“We were not intimate,” he replied. 

“It was more the time that you spent with us here, 
when you were a little boy, than anything else, that 
established a relationship between you?” 

“T suppose it was.” 

“T think you are very much interested in people, and 
Lucilla says that you are very observant,” said Flora, 
smiling a little. ‘Would you mind telling me, quite 
dispassionately, if David was popular with other men 
—the officers in his regiment, for instance?” 


204 HE ORa UN ioe 


He did not understand at what her question aimed, 
but replied with unhesitating candour. 


“T should say he was very popular. He was a good 
sportsman, and everyone liked him, although as far 
as I know he wasn’t a man of intimate friendships. 
That type isn’t.” 

“No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters 
from people who were in India with him, although you 
say he was popular. Only just those few lines from 
the Colonel. And I was afraid before—and I’m afraid 
now—” She stopped. 

“Of what?” 

“That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. 
That they're keeping the truth from us out of pity, 
or to save some scandal. I—I can’t get it out of my 
mind, Owen.” 

He heard her with something that was not alto- 
gether surprise. Subconsciously, he felt that his own 
uneasiness had been only dormant. 

“Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?” 

SNOe: 

“Why have you told me?” 

He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in 
order to be reassured, nor in order to find relief. 
Speaking was no relief to Flora, so far as Owen could 
see. 

“I want you to try and find out definitely.” 

“Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you 
fear is true—” he hesitated. 

“That David took his own life?” said Flora, shud- 
dering. “Then, don’t you see, Owen, I shall have 


DAVID AND FLORA 205 


to tell Father—or else to make it absolutely certain 
that no one will ever tell him.” 

“You can’t,’ said Owen gently. 

“But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. 
“He’s had a great deal to bear already, and this would 
be worse than anything. Suicide is a mortal sin. 
Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to—he ts 
resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from 
nearly all those whom he loves,—but suicide would 
mean eternal separation. It would be worse than 
anything—the loss of David's soul.” 

Lagsee.,’’ 

Quentillian did indeed see. 

“Val, and Adrian, and David—they’ve all gone 
away from him,” said Flora. ‘Only he knows there 
is another life, so much more real and enduring than 
this one, to which he looks. It means everything to 
him. If David did do—that—then the hope of meet- 
ing him again, in eternity, is gone.” 

Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, 
anguished statement. 


“You are taking it for granted that a suspicion— 
which after all, rests on very little indeed—is true.” 

“You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this 
thing, I can’t very well afford to wait and do nothing, 
just because there’s quite a big chance that it isn’t true 
at all. The chance that it is true, may be infinitesimal 
—the hundredth chance, if you like—but it’s that 
which I’ve got to think about, not the other. Opti- 
mism doesn’t carry one far enough, in preparing a line 
of defence.” 

“I agree with you.” 


206 THE OPTIMIST. 


“T don’t think that either you or I are optimists, 
Owen,” said Flora, faintly smiling. 

No! 

“That's why I want you to help me. Can you make 
enquiries at any of the headquarter places in London 
where they might know something?” 

yicanstry.., 


y 


“Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his 
unenthusiastic assent had closed the subject. 

They went along the muddy road in silence. 

It was from no sense that it was necessary to break 
it, that Quentillian spoke again at last. 

“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?” 

“T don’t think so. She promised to stay till the 
spring. You know Val has another little boy? I wish 
we could see them, but Father will never really be happy 
about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but 
he doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.” 

“T don’t consider that the Canon had anything to 
forgive,” said Quentillian in tones of finality. 

“But he does.” 

If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recog- 
nition for the magnanimity of his point of view, he 
was not destined to be gratified. Flora spoke rather 
as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude. 

“Ts Val happy?” 

“Very. She has exactly what she always really 
wanted. Sometimes they have a servant, but most of 
the time she does everything herself, and has occasional 
help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all 
her letters are about them, and about the house, and 
all they’re doing to improve it. She’s got the life that 


DAVID AND FLORA _ 207 


she was really meant for, and after all, isn’t that what 
makes happiness ?”’ 

“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive 
things, you think?” 

“Lucilla always said so. There is the cottage, Owen. 
Will you wait outside, or come in?” 

“T should like to come in with you.” 

Life was inartistic, Quentillian reflected whimsically, 
while Flora delivered her father’s message to a middle- 
aged woman in an apron. 


To accord with all literary conventions, there should 
have been a sick child in the cottage, and Flora’s tender 
soothing of its fretfulness should have proved a reve- 
lation of the unfulfilled maternal instinct within her. 

But there was no sick child to provide a clou for 
Quentillian’s observations in psychology, and he was 
by no means assured of Flora’s powers of soothing. 
Rather would she urge the silence of resignation. 

He was convinced that never in her life had Flora 
Morchard been the centre of a pretty picture. That 
her personality seldom dominated any scene was not, 
he felt, from any conscious effacement, but from an 
innate and instinctive withdrawal of her forces to some 
unseen objective, to her infinitely worth while. He 
reflected with dismay on his own undertaking to make 
enquiries concerning the death of David Morchard. 
But he did not think that Flora, whatever the result of 
the enquiries, would be dismayed. Dismay implied 
mental disarray, a quality of taken-abackness.. Flora, 
as she would herself have told him, was strong in a 
strength not her own. 

They walked back together almost in silence. 


208 DHE OR IMS 


“Your little expedition did Flora good,” the Canon 
told Quentillian that evening. “I am grateful to you, 
dear fellow, very grateful. Let us see something of 
you still, from Stear. It means a great deal to us 
both. There must not be ‘good-bye’ between us, save 
for the beautiful old meaning of the word, ‘God by 
you.’ God by you always, dear Owen.” 

Quentillian went to London, made no discoveries at 
all, and wrote to Flora. 

She replied, thanking him, in the briefest of notes. 
A week later he received another letter from her. 


“My DEAR OWEN: 


“The Indian mail came in yesterday, and brought 
me a letter from David, written a week before he died. 
He asked me to break it to my father that a Major 
Carey, in his regiment, was on his way home to take 
divorce proceedings against his wife, citing David as 
co-respondent. David asked me in the letter to do 
anything I could for Mrs. Carey, as she is by herself, 
with no relations in England. ‘The case was to be un- 
defended, and David had decided to leave the Army 
and come to England as soon as possible to marry 
Mrs. Carey. I gather that he was very unhappy, espe- 
cially at having to leave the regiment. I still do not 
know whether he found a dreadful solution to the 
whole question, in taking his own life. 

“Mrs. Carey has written to Father, a strange note, 
which he showed me. She says nothing of the divorce 
proceedings, but only writes as a great friend of 
David’s, imploring to be allowed to see us. Naturally, 
Father is only too anxious to see her, and as she says 


DAVID AND FLORA 209 


that she is on her way to Scotland at once, we are com- 
ing to London on the 10th so as to meet her. 

“T have told Father nothing whatever of David’s 
letter to me. I cannot imagine that Mrs. Carey will 
want to make the facts known to him, but I shall be 
able to judge better when I have seen her, which I 
have decided to do, by myself, before the appointment 
with Father. 

“T can arrange this a great deal better with your help 
than without it, therefore will you come and see us on 
the evening we arrive—Thursday the 10th, at about six 
o'clock, Carrowby’s Hotel? 

“Please destroy this letter. 

“Yours sincerely, 
“FrLorA MorcHARD,.” 


Quentillian, as he read Flora’s unvarnished state- 
ments, felt a sensation as of being appalled. 

He could not believe that Flora, fanatically single- 
minded as her determination to shield her father from 
the knowledge of the truth might be, had any concep- 
tion of the difficulties that probably lay before her, and 
he asked himself also whether she had in any degree 
realized what the consequences must be to the Canon, 
far more than to herself, of a deception that should 
break down half way. 

His absolute conviction of Flora’s inflexibility, and 
his own strong sense of the impertinence, in both the 
proper and the colloquial sense of the word, of offering 
unasked advice, were not enough to restrain him from 
the mental composition of several eloquent and elab- 
orate expositions of opinion, But they sufficed to re- 


210 TEER UVES ae 


strain him from transferring the eloquence to a sheet 
of notepaper. 

He went to Carrowby’s Hotel, to keep the appoint- 
ment summarily made by Flora. 

“You dear man!” 

The Canon’s exclamation of pleasure rang through 
the dingy hotel sitting-room in which Quentillian 
found them. He always showed the same pleasure in 
seeing Owen, and Owen’s old sense of inadequacy had 
insensibly given place to a rather remorseful gratt- 
tude. 

“Ts this the doing of Flora? She told me that she 
should notify you of our coming, but it 1s good to 
meet with a friend’s face so early. Our stay is to be a 
very brief one. I have to return home for the Sunday. 
I cannot leave all in Clover’s hands. Besides, I trust 
there will be no need. You know the errand on which 
we are come?” 

“I told him in my letter,” said Flora. 

“This lady, this Mrs. Carey, had seen much of our 
dear fellow in India and her letter is full of feeling— 
full of feeling. She heard nothing of our tragedy un- 
til she landed in England. It seems that she had been 
in ill health for some time, she writes of complete 
prostration, and is on her way to Scotland now. So 
you will understand our hasty journey hither. Has it 
not indeed been with us, ‘Ask and ye shall receive’? 
Flora, here, knows what my yearning has been for one 
word with those who knew him, who had been with 
him recently. And behold! it has been given unto me, 
‘full measure, heaped up, pressed down and running 


bea B 


over. 


DAVID AND FLORA 211 


The Canon leant back. He looked very tired and 
old. } 
“Do you see her tomorrow morning, sir?” 


“We go to her, Owen. She is good enough to re- 
ceive us on Saturday morning, and I understand that 
she leaves that evening. Tomorrow I have a confer- 
ence in the afternoon, but the morning is our own.” 

He gazed wistfully at Owen. 

“T had thought of a memorial window to the be- 
loved David, and this is an opportunity which may 
not come again. I have the name of a place to which 
I half thought of going, if it be not too trying for 
little Flora.” 

“Let me accompany you,” said Quentillian. 

It was evidently what the Canon wished. 

“Will you, dear lad? I own that I should be glad 
of your arm, aye, and your presence. Flora is over- 
wrought and overtired.” 

She did indeed look very ill, not at all to Quentil- 
lian’s surprise. 

“She has been taking too much thought for me, dear 
child,” said the Canon, Quentillian could not help 
thinking with more truth than he realized. “I wish 
Flora to take some rest. Let the expedition tomorrow 
be yours and mine, Owen. Tell me, my daughter, 
what time am I free?” 


’ 


“Tomorrow morning, till twelve o'clock. Your con. 
ference is at two.” 

“Flora is my deputy secretary,” said the Canon smil- 
ing. “I trust it all to her, and her memory is unfail- 
ing, She is indeed my right hand.” 


212 THE OPTIMIST 


“Will you come at ten o'clock tomorrow, Owen, and 
start from here?” said Flora abruptly. 

He assented, determined to obtain an opportunity 
of speaking to her alone. If he was to assist Flora in 
a scheme of concealment against which he inwardly re- 
volted strongly, he must at least know of what that 
scheme consisted. Huis indignation waxed in propor- 
tion to his anxiety, until Flora said to him with delib- 
eration: 

“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I'll ring 
for the lift.’ The suggestion took them both out of 
the room, and she closed the door after her. 

“What is it you're doing?” said Quentillian, his 
urgency too great for a choice of words. 

She leant against the passage wall, white and 
rather breathless, but spoke low and very distinctly, 
as though to impress her facts upon him. 

“Listen—I want you to be quite clear about it. The 
appointment with Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow—Fri- 
day morning. I’m going to her house. I’m certain 
from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. 
I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s 
to tell us things—things about David. I shall know 
when I’ve seen her.” 

“But your father thinks the appointment is for Sat- 
urday?” 

“T told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.” 

“And how are you to prevent his going there on 
Saturday ?” 

“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.” 

“You know that for certain?” 

“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these 


DAVID AND FLORA 213 


things to chance. But I shall telephone on Saturday 
and find out if she’s really left.’’ 

“T still don't understand altogether. How can you 
explain to the Canon that this lady isn’t there, when 
he goes by appointment to see her ?” 


“T shall have made a mistake. I’m keeping his en- 
gagements written down for him. And I shall have 
written down this engagement for Saturday, instead of 
for Friday. He will go exactly one day too late.” 

“Flora, you can’t do it.” 


She lifted tired eyes to his face, overwrought to the 
point of fanaticism. 


“Don't waste time. Only tell me if I can count on 
you. All I want you to do is to keep Father out, with 
you, tomorrow morning. I shall be at Mrs. Carey’s at 
half-past ten and I promise to be back here before one 
o’clock.”’ 


“Suppose this lady is not what you think her, and 
you find that she will be—discreet—is your father to 
be disappointed of his hopes of seeing her?” 


“T may be able to arrange something. Perhaps she’d 
put off going to Scotland, and see him on Saturday 
after all. It would be all right then, wouldn’t it? Or 
I might even be able to tell her the whole thing,” said 
Flora wistfully. “It isn’t very likely, though.” 

He did not think that it was. 

“You see, you didn’t see her original letter, and I 
did. It was the letter of a very hysterical person. She 
might say almost anything, I imagine and—well, 
there’s a good deal that mustn’t be said, isn’t there?” 

It was incontrovertible, but Quentillian said roughly : 


214 (Mea RG AAR Mabe Bl 


“T detest maneuvering, it’s utterly unworthy of you. 
All this juggling with dates and letters 4 

“It’s no use doing things by halves,” said Flora 
stubbornly. “Yes or no, Owen, are you going to back 
me up if necessary?” 

“Tf I say no, will it deter you from going through 
with this insane performance?” 

“Of course it won't.” She actually smiled. “What 
would be the sense of making up one’s mind if it’s to 
be unmade again just because one’s friends don’t agree 
with one?” 

“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders as one in 
desperation. 

She evidently accepted it as the assent, however un- 
gracious, that he meant it to be. 

“Thank you very much,” said Flora with brief 
finality. 





(iii) 


Flora followed Mrs. Carey’s maid upstairs, feeling 
as though the beating of her heart were causing each 
breath she drew to crowd thickly upon the next one. 

Mrs. Carey's house—she supposed it was Mrs. 
Carey’s house—was a very tiny one indeed, and looked 
tinier by reason of the number of pictures, draperies, 
and flowers that covered every available corner of the 
steep staircase and the small landing. 

The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that 
the maid turned on the rose-shaded electric lights as she 
ushered Flora into the empty room. 


DAVID AND FLORA 2 We 


“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you're here, 
m’m.” 

“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is 
Miss Morchard.” 

The maid went away. 

‘Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past 
ten. 

She gazed round the room, which confirmed the im- 
pression of Mrs. Carey’s personality that Flora had al- 
ready received from her pale mauve note paper, her 
methods of expressing herself in writing, and that 
which she knew of her relations with David Morchard. 

Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, ex- 
cept the walls, which were grey, and laden with 
sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which stood innum- 
erable framed and unframed photographs, nearly all 
of them of men. 

A minute writing table, set corner ways, overflowed 
with papers, and more photographs, including one that 
Flora recognized instantly, although it had never been 
sent to St. Gwenllian. 

The chair in front of the table supported a num- 
ber of illustrated papers. 

“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict. 

She had resolutely closed the avenues of her mind 
to emotion and speculation alike. The habits of ob- 
servation, which she mentioned in private spiritual con- 
sultation with her father as her own tendency towards 
a lack of charity, she knew subconsciously to possess 
a steadying effect. 

A quantity of cigarette ash in a small receptacle, pre- 
sumably placed there on the previous evening, and a 


216 LT COREE Poe 


general atmosphere of unopened windows, did not 
serve to modify Flora’s already unenthusiastic judg-~ 
ments. 

Neither did Mrs. Carey’s delay in making her ap- 
pearance. 

When she at last came in, it was difficult to see what 
could possibly have delayed her, since she had appar- 
ently only stepped out of bed into a wadded silk 
kimono, a lace boudoir cap, and fur-bordered bedroom 
slippers. — 

She looked younger than Flora had expected her to 
be, and her little pallid face was pretty enough, with 
violet semi-circles under big, light blue eyes and a 
general air of fragility. Although nearly as tall as 
Flora herself, she was slight enough to produce an 
effect of daintiness, the adjective that Flora im- 
mediately felt certain would appeal to her most. 

A short, thick plait of fair hair fell over her shoul- 
ders, and a certain babyish plaintiveness of utterance 
made Flora think of Olga Duffle. 

“T’m sure you’re David's sister,” said Mrs. Carey, to 
which proof of intuition her visitor offered no reply, 
thinking the fact sufficiently self-evident. 

“Oh, do sit down. You must forgive me coming 
in like this, but I’m not strong, and I arrived worn out 
after an awful voyage—and then to get this news! 
Do you smoke?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Do you mind if I do? I smoke too much, but my 
nerves are in an awful state. A doctor friend of mine 
—the dearest thing—made me promise faithfully never 
to inhale, but I’m afraid I do. It was the ship’s doctor, 


DAVID AND FLORA 217 


on the way home, asa matter of fact. There were one 
or two nice men on board, but the women were dread- 
ful. Miss Morchard, I should think other women gen- 
erally confide in you, don't they, and like you most 
awfully. Now, I’m not enormously popular with other 
women. I don’t mean that I haven’t got women 
friends, devoted ones, who'd do anything in the world 
for me—but most of my very best pals have been men. 
It’s funny, isn’t it? Your brother was one of my 
dearest friends.” 

The blue eyes looked warily at Flora. 

“That’s why I felt I had to see you, and oh! you are 
so like him! It’s hardly like talking to a stranger at 
all!” 

It certainly was not, Flora reflected. 

“T feel I’m so dreadfully in the dark—I know noth- 
ing. Only the awful, awful fact. When I got the 
cable—it was cabled to me, by a dear friend at Gov- 
ernment House—when I read it, I simply didn’t be- 
lieve it. I said, ‘It can’t be true.’ But it was.” 

Flora did not feel it incumbent upon her to reply. 

“When your father got my letter, I daresay he was 
astonished, but I’m _ frightfully impulsive, Miss 
Morchard, and I felt I must know more or I should 
go mad. That’s why I begged you to let me see you. 
I’m a thoroughly unconventional woman, as you may 
perhaps have guessed, and [ always act on impulse.” 

Flora looked at the frightened, furtive little face, 
and wondered what purpose and what concealment lay 
behind the flood of words. 

“T’m going to be perfectly frank with you, because 


218 THE OPTIMIST 


I feel I can trust you. May I call you Flora? My 
name is Maisie—a silly little name, isn’t it, but my 
friends all say it suits me. I don’t know why. Tell 
me, did David write to you about me? He said he was 
going to, but it was such a—such a short time be- 
fore i 

Mrs. Carey’s tongue moistened her lips as though 
they were dry. 

“T don’t know whether you've ever lived abroad, but 
if you haven’t, you don’t know what the East is like 
for people who have to live there. There’s a frightful 
amount of slander and gossip going on, and people put 
a wicked construction on all sorts of innocent things. 
It’s awful. It used to make me simply miserable. You 
see, live and let live has always been my motto. I like 
to go my own way, and have my own friends, and not 
do any harm to anybody, but simply be happy in my 
own little way. After all, it’s what God meant for all 
of us, isn't it? But in India one can’t do that. My 
dear, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like. I went out 
when I was awfully young—I was married at twenty 
—and I know for a fact that the most beastly things 
have been said about me. You see, I feel I can tell you 
this quite frankly, Flora, because of your being David's 
favourite sister. I know you'll understand, and that I 
can trust you.” 

Again that anxious, furtive glance was shot at her 
from under Mrs. Carey’s long lashes. 

“I’ve had heaps of men friends, of course—espe- 
cially in the Regiment. I’m going to be perfectly hon- 
est with you, and own up that one or two of them got 
rather silly, and fancied themselves in love with me. 





DAVID AND FLORA 219 


That wasn’t my fault, was it? I just wanted to be 
friends, you know. A nice woman can do such a lot 
for young men. I couldn’t help i1t—possibly—if they 
went and fancied themselves in love with me. Now 
could I? But would you believe it, people—it was 
mostly women, I must say, and some of them 
actually called themselves my friends—went and in- 
vented the most disgusting lies about me. Out of jeal- 
ousy, you know. I wasa good ten years younger than 
any of them, as it happened, and you’d have thought 
the Colonel’s wife, or anyone like that, might have 
wanted to mother me a little bit. (I lost my own 
mother when I was only fourteen, and had a rotten 
time at home.) But instead of that, my dear, instead 
of that, they simply spread these filthy stories about 
me and all my best friends. However, I don’t want to 
go into all that. It was soon after I first went out, and 
of course nobody who really knew me believed for an 
instant that there was anything in it. They heard 
something about it at Government House, you know, 
and the Governor was simply furious, I believe. My 
friend in the Secretariat told me about it. The Gov- 
ernor said that Mrs. Carey was the only real lady in 
the place, as well as being the prettiest woman in India. 
Of course, that may have been nonsense, because I hap- 
pen to know that he did like me most awfully—per- 
sonally, I mean—but I know I was most awfully 
touched at his taking up the cudgels for me like that. 
It showed what the people who really mattered thought 
of me, didn’t it, and after all, the Governor of a place 
does represent the King, doesn’t he?” 
“Yes,” said Flora. 


220 THE OPTIMIST 


It was the first appeal to which she had felt able to 
give any assent. 

“You said that so like David!’ cried Mrs. Carey 
clasping her hands together. “We were the greatest 
friends, and he used to come to me about everything. 
I used to tell him to marry va 

Another pause, and another tae 

“T always want my young-men friends to marry. 
That just shows, doesn’t it, what nonsense it is for 
anyone to talk as though there were anything wrong 
about it? I don’t know whether your brother ever 
hinted anything to you, in his letters, about any horrid 
gossip. Between ourselves, he used to get angry, | 
know, at the things that were sometimes said, and of 
course he knew that I wasn’t—well, very happy. 
You're not married, I know, so perhaps you won't un- 
derstand what it means to a woman, especially a very 
sensitive one, which: I am, to have a husband who is 
jealous. I’m not blaming Fred, exactly, I suppose he 
can’t help it, and he was madly in love with me when 
we married. Of course, I was much too young and 
ignorant of life to marry, but I had an awfully un- 
happy home, and if it hadn't been Fred, it would have 
been somebody else—men were always pestering me, 
somehow. Besides, people made mischief between us. 
How people can be wicked enough to come between 
husband and wife, I can’t think! Ive been through 
hell once or twice in my life, I can tell you!” 

Looking at the fear and the craftiness and the 
sensuality written on Maisie Carey’s small, ravaged 
face, Flora could believe it without difficulty. 

“T don’t really know why I’m telling you all this, 


DAVID AND FLORA 221 


exactly. It’s not like me. I’m terribly reserved, really. 
But you’ve got such an awfully nice face, somehow, 
and you're David’s sister. I can’t tell you how fond 
I was of David—we were just tremendous chums. It 
upset me awfully, that he should die in that sudden 
way.” 

She began to cry in a convulsive, spasmodic way. 

Flora still remained silent. 

“T wish you'd tell me if he ever wrote anything to 
you about me,”’ sobbed Mrs. Carey. 

In the midst of the tears which seemed to be really 
beyond her own control, Flora caught a glimpse as of 
a terrible anxiety. She suddenly knew that in the an- 
swer to that last, sobbed-out question lay, for Mrs. 
Carey, the crux of their interview. 

“He did write,” said Flora. “But what he wrote is 
safe with me. It will never go any further.” 

The figure in the gay silk kimono seemed to cower 
further back into the armchair, but there was no self- 
betraying exclamation. 

“T suppose he told you about Fred and me?” 

“And about himself too,” said Flora. 

“Men are all alike! Why did he want to tell you?” 

“So that I could tell my father and sister. David 
was afraid of Father.” | 

“Your father knows?” This time the note of alarm 
was undisguised. 

“No. The letter was only found and posted after 
the ones that told us of David’s death. And I have 
told my father nothing.” 

Mrs. Carey broke into vehement, hysterical speech. 

“There’s nothing to tell! You people at home make 


222 THE OPTIMIST 


such mountains out of molehills. I swear to you that 
there was nothing between us, that I never i 

Flora interrupted her. 

“He told me everything,” she repeated. ‘He told 
me that the case would be undefended, and that he 
was coming home to marry you. So you see I know.” 

“You! What can you, who’ve never married, never 
seen anything of life, know of things? You see evil 
where none exists—you're like all these good and holy 
PEOPLE se se it. LINtOLeTatlt Tears poured 
unchecked down her face, making streaks across the 
white powder. “You don’t even begin to know what 
I’ve gone through. My husband is a beast—a beast. 
You don’t know what that means.” 

She flung herself backwards, almost prone, and wept 
hysterically. 

“What are you going to do?” said Flora. 

“Kall myself!” 

The rhetorical answer came almost automatically. 

Flora waited for a moment and then said very 
gently : 

“As you say, I don’t know anything about these 
things, but perhaps you would tell me what you want. 
We might think of some way of making things better. 
And you can see for yourself that your secret—and 
David’s—is safe with me. I’ve deceived my father, 
sooner than let him guess. I don’t think he need 
ever know, now.” 

“Why don’t you want him to know?” said Mrs. 
Carey with sudden curiosity that seemed to check her 
crying. | 

“It would make him very unhappy. He was proud 





DAVID AND FLORA oes 


of David and he thinks that David had a career before 
him. Perhaps you’ve read in books,’ said Flora, 
speaking as though to a child, “about people thinking 
death is better than dishonour. Well, my father is 
like that.” 

“He’s a parson, isn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Carey shrugged her shoulders. 

“Where is your husband now?” Flora enquired. She 
felt that she could ask this woman questions without 
fear or rebuff, but she thought that it would be for her 
to disentangle the truth from the false in Mrs. Carey’s 
replies. 

“Fred’s in Scotland. He’s staying with his mother. 
She’s a beastly old woman and I hate her. If she'd 
been a decent sort, you’d think she’d have used her 
influence to put things right between us, now wouldn’t 
you? But she’s never let Fred alone ever since we 
married. Always telling him tales about me, and say- 
ing I’m extravagant, and a flirt, and wanting to know 
why I’ve never had a baby. It’s not my fault if I’ve 
got rotten health, now is it? I’ve always been delicate. 
I’m sure I only wish I had got a child. It might 
have made Fred nicer to me, and I should have had 
something to care for.” 

She began to cry again. 

“T’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. 
Perhaps you think I’m mad.” 

“T’m dreadfully sorry for you,” said Flora truth- 
fully. 

“You're a dear.”” Mrs. Carey dropped the hostility 
out of her voice abruptly. “No one knows what I’ve 


224. THE OF TINTS & 


gone through. And now about David—it’s simply 
awful!’ 

“Did you really mean to marry David, after your 
divorce?” 

“T’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,” said 
Mrs. Carey. She dried her eyes and her voice insensi- 
bly hardened from self-pity into tones of satisfaction. 

“T suppose I’ve always been attractive to men. I 
can’t help it, after all, And 1 dare say I’ve played the 
fool, in my time—in fact I don’t deny it. But David 
and I were simply tremendous friends, to begin with. 
He was frightfully sorry for me, too. Everybody knew 
that Fred was simply hateful to me, and made a scene 
if I so much as went out riding with another man. He 
quite liked your brother, though, at first, I will say 
that for him. We used to have him to dinner pretty 
often, and one of the subalterns to make a fourth, and 
play Bridge. Well, I never guessed that your brother 
did more than just like me as a great friend, as heaps 
of men did—how could I? I used to advise him to 
marry, often and often. Some nice girl at home, who'd 
come out and look after him. Those boys all drink 
more than is good for them, out there, if they’ve no 
wife to look after them. And David used to talk non- 
sense about having no use for girls, and having met 
his ideal too late, but of course I never took it seriously. 
Heaps of men say things like that to one, now don’t 
they? We used to go out riding together a good deal, 
and of course I danced with him. (That’s another of 
the ways in which Fred is so frightfully selfish. He 
can’t dance himself ever since he was wounded in the 
war, so he hates me to.) Then people began to say the 


y 


DAVID AND FLORA 220 


usual horrid things. The women out there are all cats, 
and besides, a good many of them wanted David for 
themselves. I didn’t take any notice. I think it’s so 
much more dignified not to, don’t you? As I said to 
the Colonel’s wife, when she had the impertinence to 
speak to me about it, I never have taken any notice of 
gossip, and I’m not going to begin now. I simply go 
my own way, and let people say what they choose. It 
doesn’t matter to me if they’ve got horrible minds. It’s 
themselves that are hurt by it, I always think, not me. 
But I think women are much braver and more uncon- 
ventional than men, don’t you? David minded ever so 
much more than I did, when he found people were 
talking about us. Well, things were going from bad 
to worse between Fred and me, and one night he was so 
perfectly hateful to me that I got frightened. He was 
—not drunk, but not altogether sober. And I ran 
into the compound and down the road to David’s bun- 
galow. He shared it with another man, but the other 
man was away shooting. You see, I was so frightened 
and upset that I didn’t know what I was doing, and 
I just felt I must go to someone who'd take care of 
me.” 

Mrs. Carey swallowed, as though something in her 
throat were hurting her, and lit another cigarette with 
a hand that trembled. 

“Tt was a frightfully imprudent thing to do, I sup- 
pose, but I’ve never pretended to be a particularly 
prudent woman. I dare say I should have been much 
happier if I’d been less impulsive, all my life, but after 
all, one can’t change one’s nature, can one? Besides, 
I was nearly out of my mind. Fred came to find me 


226 THE OPTIMIST 


next morning. I was far too miserable and terrified 
to go back to him that night. We had scene after scene, 
after that, and he threatened me with divorce proceed- 
ings.” 

She glanced at her motionless auditor. 

“T may have been a careless fool, and I'll go as far 
as to say that I’ve flirted with other men, but it was 
wicked of Fred to think of such a thing as divorce— 
to ruin my reputation, and spoil David’s career.” 

“Why was the case to be undefended?” said Flora 
steadily. 

“Why—why, don’t you see, when it all came to a 
crisis, I told David how utterly wretched my whole 
life was, and how I couldn’t bear it and should kill 
myself, and we had to talk things over, and see what 
could be done with Fred, who was like a madman. 
And then it all came out—I mean David said I was 
the only woman he could ever care for, and if I was 
free, wouldn’t I marry him, and let him try to make 
up to me for everything.” 

“Why was the case to be undefended?” 

“It would make less of a scandal if it was all done 
quietly. I—I didn’t feel I could face the other.” 

In the truth of that last assertion, Flora could be- 
lieve absolutely. 

“IT think I know the rest,” she said. “David was 
going to send in his papers, and come home to Eng- 
land as soon as possible after you and Major Carey, 
and you’d promised to marry him when the decree had 
been made absolute.” 

“How do you know those legal terms?” said Mrs. 


DAVID AND FLORA 227 


Carey, pouting like a child that is trying to show 
displeasure. 

Flora did not pursue the irrelevance. She was fol- 
lowing a chain of thought in her own mind. 

“David was in love with this woman. Otherwise 
he wouldn’t have written and asked me to do anything 
I could for her. As for leaving the case undefended 
—well, they probably hadn’t got a defence to put up. 
He meant to marry her—probably wanted to marry her. 
Besides he’d have felt that he owed it to her. And 
though he was afraid of Father, and very unhappy 
about sending in his papers, and though he may have 
had glimpses of what she really is—David wasn’t the 
sort to let her down. He didn’t kill himself.” 

The certainty came to Flora with a rush of relief 
so profound that she could almost have thanked little 
Mrs. Carey for unwittingly bringing her to it. 

It was characteristic of her that, instead, she glanced 
at her watch and said: 

“T can only stay another twenty minutes, and we 
shall probably not meet again. Are you going to Scot- 
land tonight?” 

“Indeed Iam. Fred is there now, at his mother’s, 
telling her all sorts of horrible things about me, I 
suppose. They’ve both written to me.” | 

“What is your husband going to do?” 

“I don't know.” She began to cry again. “His 
mother, for once in her life, wants to patch things up 
between us. ‘She’s one of your religious people, and 
she thinks divorce is awful.” 

“T don’t know whether a divorce is still possible, now 
that David a | 





228 ELE OP PUNE 


Mrs. Carey broke into a sort of howl that, in its 
reminiscence of a beaten animal, made Flora feel 
sick. 

“That’s just it—Fred is a beast! He thinks there 
were other people—other men—as well.”’ 

“Oh,” said Flora, and shuddered violently. 

“You've been rather a dear, so I don’t mind telling 
you that your brother is out of it now, whatever hap- 
pened. Oh, I don’t know what'll happen. I never 
cared for anybody like I did for David—never. I was 
ready to go through anything for him, and we could 
have started fresh somewhere, and no one would have 
thought anything of it. People aren’t so narrow- 
minded as they used to be. He’s the only man I’ve 
ever loved!” 

Flora felt no inclination to point out to the unhappy 
woman the inconsistency of her various statements. 

She even found it easy enough to believe that Maisie 
Carey for the moment thought herself to be speaking 
the truth when she said that David was the only man 
she had ever loved. 

“T’m sorry for you,” she said gently. “And I’m 
grateful to you, because you’ve taken a great weight 
off my mind. My brother asked me to do anything I 
could for you. Is there anything?” 

“TI don’t know what you could do, I’m sure. It isn’t 
even as though you were married. Not that you 
haven't been sweet to me, listening like this. You do 
believe in me, don’t you? Even if you hear beastly 
stories about me, ever, you’ll know they aren’t true, 
won't you?” 

She put out a hand that still trembled, to Flora, but 


DAVID AND FLORA 229 


she went on speaking rapidly, as though not daring to 
wait for an assent that might not come. 

“You're awfully like David, in some ways, you know. 
It’s been a comfort to see you. Don’t tell your father 
about my troubles. Just say I was a friend of David’s, 
you know. I’m glad he didn’t come with you. I hate 
parsons, if you'll excuse me for saying so, and I’m so 
frightfully nervous and upset that I might have said 
anything. I wish you could have seen Fred—he always 
says I haven’t got any decent women-friends. Perhaps 
you could have made him give me another chance.” 

“Don’t you think he will?” 

“How do I know? He’s written me a horrid letter, 
and pages and pages of cant from my mother-in-law. 
I believe if I promised to live at their hateful place, 
right away in Scotland, and keep within my allowance, 
and never have any fun at all, Fred would chuck the 
army and manage the estate for his mother. Can you 
see me in thick boots and a billycock hat, trudging up 
and down those hills to go and carry tracts to some 
wretched old woman in a cottage?” 

She laughed melodramatically. 

“No,” said Flora, “I can’t see you doing that. But 
I shouldn’t think you’d have to. Couldn’t you come 
here, for part of the year?” 

“T suppose I could. I don’t know. Fred got this 
house to please me, when we were first married. He’d 
have done anything for me, then. I little knew what a 
life he was going to lead me later on!” 

Flora rose. 

“T’ve got to go. I will burn the letter that David 
wrote me, about you. Only one person knows what 


230 THE OPTIMIST 


was in it, besides myself, and he will never repeat it.” 

“Was that your father ?” 

“No, oh, no. My father mustn't know, ever.” 

Flora paused for a moment, then judged that it 
would be useless to make any appeal to Mrs. Carey’s 
discretion. For her own sake, she might keep silence 
as to her relationship with David Morchard, and a 
fresh emotional disturbance would eventually displace 
the episode—to her, it could be no more—from her 
mind. 

Mrs. Carey looked at her curiously. 

“Of course, I remember you told me that your father 
didn’t know. Then are you engaged?” 

“No,” said Flora, colouring slightly. 

“All men are beasts—you’re quite right to have 
nothing to do with them. I’ve had such a rotten time, 
what with Fred’s jealousy, and other men never letting 
me alone, that I sometimes wish I’d stayed an old 
maid, like you,’ said Mrs. Carey. 

Flora recognized the impulse that sought to inflict 
a scratch, where Mrs. Carey’s self-revelation had left 
her vanity disturbed with the instinctive fear that she 
had not been taken at her own valuation. 

She said goodbye to her. 

“T’ll let you know what happens,’ Mrs. Carey prom- 
ised. “I feel you really do care, you know. I shall 
think of you when I’m taking that horrid journey to- 
night all the way to Scotland. Perhaps I really will 
settle down there, if Fred is willing to make it up, and 
if he lets me have a decent allowance, and part of the 
year over here.”’ 

She no longer looked desperate, and she bent over 


DAVID AND FLORA Zot 


the banisters and waved to Flora with the little hand- 
kerchief that was still drenched by the tears she had 
been shedding. 

Flora did not suppose that she should ever hear 
from her. Impressions made upon Mrs. Carey seemed 
to be transient affairs. 

She was conscious of nothing so much as of extreme 
physical fatigue, and the intense relief of her new cer- 
tainty that David had not, after all, sought the last 
desperate remedy. She could be certain of that, now. 

“Perhaps Owen won't understand why I’m so posi- 
tive of that now,” she reflected. ‘But after all, I knew 
David. She counted on him, and he’d promised to 
marry her. David would never have failed her deliber- 
ately—it wasn’t in him. And he was taken away 
from committing a frightful sin. Besides, who knows 
how much he repented, poor boy?” 

Within a few yards of the hotel, Flora met Quen- 
tillian. 

He turned and accompanied her to the door. 

“David didn’t take his own life, Owen. It was what 
they said—he must have been taken ill suddenly.” 

“You know for certain?” 

“For certain.”’ 

He told her that he understood her relief, but his 
next words were: 

“And do you still think you were right, about going 
alone to this woman?” 

“Whether I was right or not, I’m thankful I did. 
She would have broken my father’s heart. She was 
a sort of—emotion-monger. She’d have spared him 
nothing.” 


Poe TEES CAPS Tse 


“She spared you nothing, then, Flora?” 

“It’s different, for me. I would do anything in the 
world, for my father’s sake. That’s my only excuse, 
possibly, for deceiving him.” 

“Do you want excuses?” 

“No, I don’t. You're right,” she said gravely. “I’ve 
planned it all deliberately, and I’ve got to see it 
through.” 

“T think you’re wrong, all along the line, and I want 
to talk it over with you. It will be a bitter disappoint- 
ment to the Canon to be told that he has missed seeing 
Mrs. Carey.” 

YES. 

“But you're going to leave it at that?” 

“Yes, more than ever. Owen, when do you go to 
Stear ?” 

‘As soon as possible.” 

“Then could you travel down with us tomorrow? 
We go by the three o'clock train. I think it may do 
him good, to have you, and you see, he’ll be thinking 
that the whole expedition has been a failure. It wili 
be easier for both of us, if you’re there.” 

“Very well, I'll come.” 

They parted, and Flora went to seek her father. 
Except from a certain curiosity, it could not be said 
that Quentillian looked forward to an agreeable jour- 
ney. 

By the time that he joined Canon Morchard and his 
daughter at the railway station, he was beginning to 
feel as though the whole of the involved deception per- 
petrated with such a conviction of righteousness by 
Flora, must have been a figment of imagination. One 


DAVID AND FLORA 233 


glance at the Canon’s sombre and pallid face dispelled 
the illusion. 

Flora looked pallid also, but her expression was one 
of rapt intensity, as though only her own strange 
vision, that Quentillian felt to be so singularly per- 
verted, were before her. She had, undeniably, shielded 
her father from knowledge that must have appalled 
him, and in that security, remained calm. 

The Canon, out of his lesser awareness, had not, 
however, remained calm at all. 

“T have been angry, Owen,” he admitted, as they 
paced the platform together, at the Canon’s own in- 
vitation. “My disappointment has been very bitter. 
This lady, this Mrs. Carey, the friend of my dear 
boy David, left for Scotland last night. I went to her 
house this morning, only to find her gone. Flora, 
whom I trusted, had made a mistake of incredible 
carelessness. I could not have believed it, in a matter 
which must touch us all so nearly, which lay so close 
to my own heart. Poor child, she has been highly 
tried of late, and I have thought her looking ill. I 
should not have trusted to her accuracy. Lucilla, who 
has been my right hand, my secretary ever since her 
childhood, could never have failed me thus. I forgot 
that her sister was younger, unaccustomed to the task, 
less to be relied upon. But it has been a cruel disap- 
pointment, and I vented my first grief upon the culprit. 
Is there no stage of the journey, Owen, when one can 
see the undisciplined impulse driven underfoot, the 
hasty word bridled? I, who have striven all my life, 


I have again shown anger and violence—to my own 
child!’ 


234 CHE ORT iM Tals 


The Canon’s peculiar predilection for making an 
amateur confessor of Quentillian, was by force of 
repetition ceasing to seem anything but natural. 

Quentillian said: “Flora looks overwrought, sir,’ 
and inwardly hoped that the train would arrive 
shortly. 

“Aye, poor Flora! She was David’s especial fa- 
vourite, his best correspondent. This stroke has fallen 
heavily upon Flora, Owen. And I, who should have 
made all allowance, I turned against her! In my sharp 
disappointment, I uttered those strong expressions that 
come back to one, when the moment’s passion has 
cooled, as they must have sounded to the unhappy sin- 
ner by whom they were provoked.” 


It was the same piteous round of self-reproach, re- 
morse and profound depression to which Owen had so 
frequently listened. He hoped that he might be of some 
assistance, however, incomprehensibly to himself, in 
listening yet once again. 

“T have written to Mrs. Carey. She must indeed 
have thought my behaviour strange, ungrateful, un- 
natural even. That matters little enough, yet it adds 
its feather weight to the burden—its feather weight to 
the burden. That I should have appeared careless, in- 
different, where news of David was concerned! I, who 
would have given my heart’s blood, for one hour’s in- 
tercourse with him since he left us for the last time! 
Ah, well, it does not bear dwelling upon.” 

Nevertheless, the Canon dwelt upon it until it be- 
came necessary to rejoining Flora and enter the train. 

During the journey he remained silent, with a pro- 


DAVID AND FLORA 239 


found and unhappy silence. His manner towards his 
daughter was peculiarly gentle and melancholy. 

Presently he leant back in the corner, the sad lines 
of his face relaxing, and slept. 

Flora spoke to Quentillian in a low voice. 

“T’m so glad he’s asleep. Last night I heard him 
walking up and down his room for such a long while.” 

“He is very much distressed,’ said Quentillian 
severely. 

“T know.” She acquiesced apathetically in the truth 
of the statement. 

“Do you know that he has written to Mrs. Carey?” 

Mees. 

“How are you going to prevent her replying, and ex- 
posing the fact that you have seen her?” 

Flora whitened perceptibly, but she answered him 
with sudden spirit. 

“You have no right to question me, Owen, or to 
demand explanations from me in that tone.” 

“T have this right, that you have made me a passive 
partner in your extraordinary schemes.” 

Owen, too, was conscious of a rising anger. 

“T feel like a traitor to your father, Flora. What 
are you going to do next?” 

“T am going to see it through,” said Flora doggedly. 
“At least you will admit that to do a thing like this 
by halves, is a great deal worse than useless. I have 
saved my father from what must have broken his 
heart.”’ 

“You have done evil that good may come,”’ he quoted 
grimly. 

“If you like to put it so.”’ Flora was inexorable. 


236 THE OPTIMIST 


“He has suffered too much already.”’ 

“You mock your own God,” said Quentillian, with 
sudden, low vehemence. ‘You profess to believe in 
Him, to trust Him, and yet you deceive and manoeuvre 
and plot, sooner than leave your father to his dealings. 
I have small belief in a personal God, Flora, but I can 
see no justification in endeavouring madly to stand be- 
tween another soul, and life.” 

She gazed at him piteously. 

“Do you think I am not unhappy—that I have not 
been torn in two? He was angry, ,Owen, when he 
thought I had made a mistake about the appointment, 
and oh, the relief of it! I should have welcomed it if 
he had hit me—I deserved it all, and far more besides. 
If I am doing wrong, I am suffering for it.” 

Quentillian, looking at her haggard, tragic face, felt 
sure that she spoke literal truth. 

“When does Lucilla come home?” he suddenly asked. 

“T don’t know. Soon, I hope.” 

Quentillian hoped so too. It seemed to him that 
only Lucilla’s normality could adjust to any sort of 
balance the mental atmosphere of St. Gwenllian. 

Flora gazed at her father. 

“Think what it would have been to him to know, 
now, that David had sinned, even that he contemplated 
going through the form of marriage, with that poor 
thing! The world’s standards of honour are not those 
of my father.”’ 

“Nor yours either,’ Quentillian had almost said, but 
he checked the cheap retort as it rose. 

An impulse made him say instead: 

“Promise me at least, Flora, that if this becomes 


DAVID AND FLORA Ly | 


too much for you, if it all breaks down, you will let 
me share it with you. You owe it to me, I think, hav- 
ing let me be partly responsible. Will you promise?” 

“You are very good,” said Flora, her mouth quiver- 
ing for the first time. “But I don’t mean to fail.” 

It was evident enough that her whole being was 
strung up to the accomplishment of her purpose, and 
that she was incapable of seeing beyond it. 

Quentillian, at his own station, parted from Canon 
Morchard and his daughter with the direst forebod- 
ings. Insensibly, he, too, had almost come to feel 
that anxious preoccupation with the Canon’s peace of 
mind that exercised the Canon’s daughters. 

Within a fortnight of his return he went over to 
St. Gwenllian and found there no trace of catastrophe 
such as he had half expected, but the usual atmosphere 
of calm melancholy. 

He had no conversation with Flora, but she told 
him briefly that there would be no correspondence be- 
tween her father and Mrs. Carey, and Quentillian 
was left to surmise by what peculiar methods Flora had 
achieved her ends. 

On the whole, he preferred not to dwell upon the sub- 
ject. He had a certain unwilling respect for Flora, 
even if none for her casuistries, and he had no wish 
to dwell either upon her astonishing machinations or 
his own complicity. 

(iv) 
In the spring Lucilla came back to St. Gwenllian. 


The first time that Owen saw her was in the pres- 
ence of the Canon. 


238 THE OR PIMIS 


In his relief at her return, Canon Morchard had evi- 
dently forgotten that he had thought it undutiful of her 
to go. 

“You see I have my right hand once more,” he said 
fondly. “Owen here can tell you that you have been 
sadly missed, my daughter. Little Flora did her best, 
but she is not my housekeeper, my experienced secre- 
tary. Neither she nor our poor Valeria can equal 
Lucilla there.” 

Quentillian took his advantage and asked Lucilla 
for news of Valeria. The Canon, habitually, seemed 
only too much inclined to view any mention of Valeria 
and her husband as a rank indecency in the presence of 
her quondam betrothed. 

“Val is very well and very busy,” said Lucilla. 
“George is doing well, on the whole, though it’s a strug- 
gle, but the land there is wonderful. I should like to 
show you the photographs of their little farm, and the 
children.”’ 

“Lucilla is our photographer,” said the Canon for- 
bearingly, as though in extenuation of what Quentil- 
lian felt certain that he regarded as Lucilla’s indiscre- 
tion. 

Not for the first time, Quentillian suspected that 
Lucilla was the only one of the Canon’s children able 
to contemplate the Canon by the light of a sense of 
humour, that detracted not at all from her affection 
and respect. 

“They are not thinking of a visit to England, I 
suppose ?” 

“No. Expense is a consideration, and there are 
the children.” 


DAVID AND FLORA ov 


“My grandsons!” said the Canon. “I should like a 
sight of my grandsons, but there could not be unal- 
loyed joy in the meeting. Nay, I ask myself sometimes 
if there can be any unalloyed joy here below. Are not 
the warp and woof intermingled even in the nearest 
and dearest relationships? And the manner of poor 
Valeria’s leaving home was such as to make one’s 
heart ache, both for her and with her. But enough of 
reminiscences, my children. I am in no mood for them 
tonight. I wish to rest, and perhaps read. You may 
some of you remember a very favourite old story of 
mine,” said Canon Morchard genially. “That of the 
famous saying, ‘We are none of us infallible, not even 
the youngest.’ ”’ 

This terrible pronouncement, however historical, sel- 
dom amused the juniors of its raconteur, and Flora 
and Lucilla only accorded to it the most perfunctory 
of smiles. Owen Quentillian remained entirely grave. 

“No one has more admiration than myself for the 
quality of infallibility,” the Canon continued, humour- 
ously “(always provided that it is not that which is 
claimed by the Pope of Rome), but I must confess that 
I am not amongst those who take the modern craze for 
youthful intellectuals very seriously. This being so, 
dear Owen, you will forgive me in that I have not yet 
read anything of yours. Tonight I have a free hour 
—a rare treat—and I am going to rectify the omission. 
Will you read aloud to us of your work, or is that too 
much to ask?” 

It was indeed too much to ask, Owen felt. 

He could have read his own work aloud with com- 
parative complacency to any critic capable of taking 


240 THE OPTIMIST 


it seriously, but to Canon Morchard the slight, cynical 
epigrams, the terse, essentially unsentimental rational- 
ism of Owen’s views upon God and man, must come 
either as wanton impertinence, or as meaningless folly. 


It was impossible to suppose that the Canon would 
keep either opinion to himself, and Quentillian felt it 
unlikely that he would either find himself capable of 
listening to him tolerantly, or be given an opportunity 
for demolishing his views. 


“T think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon 
you at all, sir,’ he remarked, with truth, and yet 
with an absence of sincerity of which he felt that 
Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as he 
was himself. 


> “T assure you that I’m not worth reading.” 

“T shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon 
kindly. “Was there not something in that Review that 
was sent to you, Flora?” 

“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly. 

“Fetch it, my dear.” 


Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent pro- 
ductions, and was invaded by a grim dismay. 


His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where 
writings not directly connected with Church matters 
were concerned, was of the slightest, but he disliked. 
the thought both of the pain that the elder man would 
feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and 
of the remonstrance that he would certainly believe it 
his duty to make. 


It was a relief to him when Flora returned without 
the Review, and said: 


DAVID AND FLORA 241 


“There is someone who wants to speak to you in 
the hall, Father. I’m so sorry.” 

The Canon rose at once. 

*“*The man who wants me is the man I want’,” he 
quoted, and left the room. 

When the door had closed behind him, Flora said to 
her sister, with a certain ruthless disregard of Quentil- 
lian’s presence that at least established the earnestness 
of her concern: 

“What shall we do?’ 

“Nothing,” said Lucilla laconically. 

“But we can’t let him see that Review. Adrian sent 
it to me—it’s got something in it by that man Hale. 
Father would hate the whole thing.” 

Lucilla looked at Quentillian. 

“He won’t like my article, and I should very much 
prefer him not to read it,” said the author candidly. 

She smiled slightly. 

“Tt’s the one on the Myth of Self-Sacrifice ?” 

Owen nodded. 

“It might have been worse,” said Lucilla. “It might 
have been the one in which you said that the parental 
instinct was only another name for the possessive in- 
stinct. And now I come to think of it, that one was 
called The Sanctification of Domestic Tyranny, wasn’t 
thc?" 

“It was,” said Quentillian, in a tone which struck 
himself as being rather that of a defiant child to its 
nurse. 

“Well, Father would have liked that even less than 
the Myth of Seli-Sacrifice, I imagine.” 

She spoke without acrimony, without, in fact, any 


242 THEIORTIMITS T 


effect at all of personal bias, but Quentillian said dis- 
passionately : 

“You dislike the modern school of thought of which 
my writings are a feeble example. May I ask why you 
read them?” 

“But I don’t dislike it, Owen,” she returned with 
a calm at least equal to his own. “As for what you 
write, I think you’re very often mistaken, but that 
doesn’t prevent my being interested.” 

Quentillian was slightly taken aback at being con- 
sidered mistaken, and still more at being told so. He 
had always respected Lucilla, both morally and intellect- 
ually, and he would have preferred to suppose the ad- 
miration mutual. 

“Owen, haven’t you got anything else that he could 
have to read?” broke in Flora. 

“Nothing that he would—care for,’ answered Quen- 
tillian, who had very nearly said “Nothing that he 
would understand.” 

“Father has asked for the Review, Flossie, and you'd 
better get it. You needn’t work yourself up about 
it. He knows it’s general character quite as well as 
you do.” 

“TI don’t think he ought to be allowed to make him- 
self needlessly unhappy,” said Flora obstinately. 

“You can’t prevent it.” 

“I suppose it would be wrong to say that I don’t 
know where the Review is?” 

“Tt would be foolish, which is worse,” said Lucilla 
curtly. Her un-moral pronouncement closed the dis- 
cussion. 

Flora, looking grave and unhappy, left the room, 


b 


DAVID AND FLORA 243 


and presently returned with the instrument of destruc- 
tion, as she evidently regarded the production. 

“Let us hope that Canon Morchard will continue to 
be detained,” said Quentillian, not altogether ironically. 

Flora made no reply. 

In less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the Canon 
came back again, picked up the Review and made a 
careful scrutiny of the table of contents. 

“The Myth of Self-Sacrifice?” he enunciated, with 
a strongly-enquiring inflexion in his tone, as though 
prepared to receive the writer’s instant assurance that 
he was not responsible for so strange a heading. 

Owen desired to leave the room, but was mysterious- 
ly compelled to remain in it, glancing at intervals at 
the all-too expressive face of his reader. 

The Canon read very attentively, pausing every now 
and then to turn back a page or two, as though com- 
paring inconsistencies of text, and sometimes also turn- 
ing on a page or two ahead, as if desirous of establish- 
ing the certainty that a conclusion was eventually to be 
attained. His eyebrows worked as he read, after a 
fashion habitual with him. 

There had been evenings when Flora had made the 
slightest of pencil sketches, hardly caricaturing, but em- 
bodying, this peculiarity, for her father’s subsequent 
indulgent amusement. But no such artistic pleasantry 
was undertaken tonight. The atmosphere did not lend 
itself to pleasantry of any kind. 

At last the Canon closed the volume, laid it down, 
and removed his glasses with some deliberation. 

“Dear lad, I am disappointed.” 

“I was afraid you would be.” 


244 THEIOPITIMIS ET 


“Ts this quite worthy of you?” 

Owen felt that a reply either in the affrmative or in 
the negative, would be equally unsatisfactory, and made 
none. 

“You have adopted the tone of the day to an extent 
for which I was by no means prepared,” the Canon 
said gently. “Iam sorry for it, Owen—very sorry. I 
- think you have heard me speak before of my dislike 
for the modern note, that emphasises the material 
aspect, that miscalls ugliness realism, and coarseness 
strength. Forgive me, dear Owen, if I hurt you, but 
this—this trivial flippancy of yours, has hurt me.” 

Owen had no doubt that Canon Morchard spoke the 
truth. 

“How emphatically he belongs to the generation that 
took the errors of other people to heart,” Quentillian 
reflected. 

He felt no great sympathy with such vicarious dis- 
tresses. 

“There is so much that is sad and bad in life, that 
one longs to read of happiness, and hope, and beauty,” 
said the Canon. “Why not, dear Owen, seek out and 
write of the ‘something afar from the sphere of our 
sorrow’ ?”’ 

“Because to my way of thinking, only first-hand im- 
pressions are of any value. The only value that any 
point of view of mine can lay claim to, must lie in its 
sincerity.” 

“Words, words! You delude yourself with many 
words,” said the Canon sadly, rousing in Quentillian 
a strong desire to retort with the obvious fu quoque. 

“Do not misunderstand me, dear fellow—there is 


DAVID AND FLORA 245 


talent there—perversely exercised, if you will, but tal- 
ent. I cannot but believe that life has many lessons 
in store for you, and when you have learnt them, then 
you will write more kindly of human nature, more 
reverently of Divine.” 

Hope was once more discernible in the Canon’s voice 
and on his face, and as he rose he laid his hand affec- 
tionately upon the young man’s arm. “Hoping all 
things—believing all things,” he murmured, as he left 
the room. 

Quentillian was left to the certainty that his brief 
exposition of his literary credo had entirely failed to 
convey any meaning to the Canon, and that the long 
list of the Canon’s optimistic articles of faith now in- 
cluded his own regeneration. 


(v) 


“FATHER, I think Flora looks ill.” 

Canon Morchard gazed with concern at Lucilla as 
she made the announcement, and at once devoted him- 
self to the anxious analysis that he always accorded 
to any problem affecting one of his children. 

“T have thought her altered myself, by the great grief 
of last year. Spiritually, it has developed her, I be- 
lieve. But there is a sustained melancholy about her, 
an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one looks for 
from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, 
too, have observed it?” 

sy eS,’" 

Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and 


246 FLEAS BUNS Ii 


she was at a loss for a definition of her secret, latent 
fears. 

“Flossie has become very irritable, 
voicing the least of her anxieties. 

“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had 
much to try her, and your own absence in Canada 
threw a great deal for which she is scarcely fitted, upon 
her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that 
critical spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often 
disturbed me.”’ 

Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without 
resentment as without surprise, that it would be of no 
use to say that her observation had not contained any 
of the spirit of criticism at all. She said instead: 

“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very 
early.”’ 

“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” 
said the Canon tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a 
very living reality to her—more so than ever, of late, I 
think.” 

“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead 
of happy.” 

“What are you saying, Lucilla?’ the Canon en- 
quired in highly-displeased accents. 

“Tt is perfectly true. She is very restless, and very 
unhappy, and the more she goes to church, the less 
it seems to satisfy her.” 

“And who are you, to judge thus of another’s spirit- 
ual experiences? You mean well, Lucilla, but there 
is a materialism about your point of view that has 
long made me uneasy—exceedingly uneasy. You were 
encumbered with household cares very young, and it 


9 


she said at last, 


DAVID AND FLORA 247 


has given you the spirit of Martha, rather than the 
spirit of Mary. Leave Flora to my direction, if you 
please.” 

“T should like her to see the doctor.” 

“Has she complained of ill-health?” 

“No, not at all. She resents being asked if she is 
well.” 

“Most naturally. She is not a child. You take too 
much upon yourself, Lucilla, as I have told you be- 
fore. Leave Flora’s welfare in Higher hands than 
ours, and remember that it is not the part of a Christian 
to anticipate trouble. Where is your faith?” 

Lucilla was not unaccustomed to this enquiry, and 
did not deem any specific reply to be necessary. What- 
ever the whereabouts of that which the Canon termed 
her faith, it did not serve in any way to allay her 
anxiety. 

She watched Flora day by day. 

She saw her increasing pallor, her gradual loss of 
weight, the black lines that deepened beneath her eyes. 
Above all, she saw the mysterious sense of grievance, 
that most salient characteristic of the neurotic, gather 
round her sister’s spirit. 

After a little while, she ceased to talk of her visit 
to Canada, of Valeria, and Valeria’s children, because 
she saw that Flora could not bear these subjects. 

“She’s jealous,” thought Lucilla, with a sick pang 
of pity. 

“T’m sorry for poor Val, living right away from civi- 
lization, and absorbed by commonplace things all the 
time,” said Flora. 

She went to church more frequently than ever. 


248 THE OPTIMIST 


Lucilla wondered very often if anything had hap- 
pened while she was away. 

One day she asked Owen Quentillian. 

“There was the shock of David’s death,” he said 
rather lamely. 

“Yes. Father says it affected Flora terribly for a 
long while.” 

“Do you find her much changed, then?” 

“T find her very unbalanced,” said Lucilla with her 
usual directness. 

“T think she is an unbalanced person,” Quentillian 
assented, levelly. 

“T wish she could leave home for a time.” 

But Flora, when this was suggested to her, said that 
she did not wish to leave home. Her manner implied 
that the suggestion hurt her. 

At first the Canon was pleased, assuring Lucilla that 
the pleasant home-life at St. Gwenllian, even if robbed 
of its old-time joyousness, would best restore Flora 
to herself. But after a time, he, too, watched her with 
anxiety. 

“Little Flora is not herself,” he began to say. 

“Let me send for the doctor, Father,” Lucilla urged. 

“We will see, my dear, later on. The unsettled 
weather is trying to us all just now—no doubt things 
will right themselves in a day or two, and we shall smile 
at our own foolish, faithless fears.” | 

Meanwhile, however, no one at St. Gwenllian evinced 
any desire to smile at anything, and Flora became sub- 
ject to violent fits of crying. 

Her dignity and her delicate reticence seemed alike 
to have deserted her. She cried in church, and some-. 


DAVID AND FLORA 249 


times she cried at home, regardless of the presence of 
her father and sister. 

“My dear, what is it?” the Canon enquired at last, 
long after Lucilla had given up asking the same ques- 
tion in despair. 

“Nothing,” said Flora. 

“Tt is not right to prolong your sorrow for your 
dear one in this fashion,” said the Canon. ‘‘Can we 
not trust dear David to the Everlasting Arms, and ful- 
fil our own appointed days here below?” 

His daughter made no reply. 

“This is reaction, Flora,” said Canon Morchard de- 
cisively. ‘When this heavy blow first fell upon us, 
you were my courageous daughter, my comforter— 
so far as that was humanly possible. Do not falter 
now—remember that whom He loveth, He chastizeth.” 

“T do remember,” she said, her face a mask of misery. 

“You are not well,” said the Canon tenderly. “TI 
shall no longer allow you to exert yourself as you have 
been doing. Lucilla here will arrange that your class 
shall be temporarily given over to other management, 
and no doubt she can herself arrange to replace you 
at the choir-practices.” 

“T can arrange it,’ Lucilla said, “but i. 

She looked at her sister. 

Flora broke into a tempest of tears. 

“Don’t take away what work I can do,” she sobbed 
out. “My life is useless enough, in all conscience.” 

“Flora!” the Canon thundered. ‘“Haveacare! Such 
a thought is perilously near to being a blasphemous 
one.” 

She hid her face in her hands, 





250 DHE OP TIMiSas 


“You are unstrung, my poor child,” said her father. 
He took to treating her almost as an invalid, and 
failed to perceive that his watchful and incessant solici- 
tude produced upon Flora’s nerves an effect that was 
the very reverse of soothing. 

“She ought to go right away from home,” said 
Lucilla to Quentillian. “But it’s difficult to suggest it 
again, she was so much upset when I spoke of it be. 
fore. Will you try what you can do, Owen? Sh 
is a great deal more likely to listen to someone who i 
not one of the family. It’s one of the symptoms.” 

“Symptoms of what?” \ 

“Of hysteria,” said Lucilla succinctly, facing th 
word as she had already faced the fact. 

Quentillian admired her directness, but it did not 
breed in him any desire to adopt the measure suggested, 
and speak to Flora. 

At last, however, he did so. They had scarcely been 
alone together since the day when she had told him 
of her visit to Mrs. Carey. 

“Ts that business on your mind, Flora?” 

He had thought for some time that it might be. 

“What ?” 

“Mrs. Carey, I mean.” 

She coloured deeply. 

“T did what I thought right at the time, Owen. Is 
there any necessity to discuss it again?” 

“Not if you don’t wish to, certainly. I had an idea 
that it might be a relief. I suppose no one knows be- 
sides ourselves?” 

“No one. She never wrote to me, you know, and 
I feel sure she never will. She was the sort of person 


DAVID AND FLORA 251 


to be thoroughly absorbed by her impressions of the 
moment. I sometimes wonder what happened to her, 
in Scotland.” 

“Tt is not very difficult to guess what will happen, 
sooner or later, from what you told me. People like 
Mrs. Carey live from one emotional crisis to another.” 

She gave him a curious look. 

“At least it’s living—not stagnation. That inter- 
view with Mrs. Carey seems like a dream, almost, now- 
adays—something quite apart from the rest of my life. 
I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing I’ve ever done 
entirely by myself, without any of the family knowing 
about it. I’ve never even seen anyone else at all like 
Mrs. Carey—it was impossible to get into touch with 
her, really. She was like a painted cardboard figure, 
with no back to it—nothing solid.” 

“But you’ve turned down that page, now—it’s fin- 
ished with?” 

“Yes,” she said, looking down. 

He had wondered whether that which he sometimes 
thought of as Flora’s Jesuitical plotting had come to 
prey upon her mind. 

Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so. 

In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry 
than: 

“Why are you unhappy?” 

“T don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip. 

“T feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be 
unhappy, if you felt like that—that nobody really 
needed you in any way, and you had nothing to do?” 

“Not in the least,’ said Quentillian reflectively. “T 
am quite sure that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t 


252 THE OPTIMIST 


distress me. As for having nothing to do, I imagine— 
if you will forgive me for saying so—that one can al- 
ways find something if one looks far enough.” 


“Tt’s different for a man.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Quentillian went away still undetermined whether 
Flora’s conduct of the affaire Carey was the cause or 
the result of her present deplorable condition. 


That she had all the makings of a fanatic, he had 
long suspected, and the Canon’s determination to treat 
her as an invalid, in need of rest and complete inaction, 
seemed to him to be a singularly ill-advised one. 


In spite of his disapproval of her methods, Quen- 
tillian had come to feel a certain affection for Flora, 
and he could not avoid a sense of complicity that drew 
him to her, even while it chafed his self-righteousness. 

With an entire lack of originality, he informed 
Lucilla that he thought her sister would be better away 
from home. 


“Well, so dol. But even to go away for a few weeks 
would only be a half-measure. Owen, I’m frightened 
about Flora—far more than I’ve ever been about any- 
one before.” 

He could partly apprehend her meaning. 

“Don’t you think that perhaps this—phase—is only 
another manifestation of the same spirit that made 
Val want to go and work somewhere?” 

“In a sense, yes. You see, all the intellectual inter- 
ests, and the mental appreciations, to which we were 
brought up, although those things did fill our days— 
at least before the war—were only superimposed on 


DAVID AND FLORA aa 


what Val and Flossie and Adrian really were, in them- 
selves. Not essentials, I mean, to either of them.” 

Quentillian wondered what Lucilla’s own essentials 
might be. She had given him no hint of them, ever, 
and yet he suspected her of an almost aggressive neu- 
trality with regard to the imposed interests of which 
she had spoken. 

The odd contradiction in terms seemed to him ex- 
pressive of the difference that he felt certain existed be- 
tween Lucilla’s daily life, and the personal, intimate 
standpoint from which she all the time regarded that 
life. 

Something of the same ruthlessness of purpose that 
had once characterized Flora, he had always discerned 
in Lucilla, but he felt very certain that her essential 
sanity and humour would have kept her for ever from 
the strange and tortuous means adopted by Flora to 
safeguard those interests of which she apparently felt 
herself to be a better judge than her Creator. 

Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any 
justification for tampering with other people’s corre- 
spondence. 

“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away 
from home.” 

“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada 
instead of you.” 

“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either 
of us to go, and Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.” 

Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the 
thought of it, as he had frequently felt before. He had, 
however, long ago sufficiently assimilated the atmos- 
phere of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing out 


254 THE OPTIMIST 


that Flora had been for some years of an age to act 
for herself, independently of the parental sanction. He 
did not, indeed, suppose that Lucilla needed to have 
anything so self-evident put before her. 

“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?” 

eNOS 

Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es al- 
ways took him slightly by surprise, especially after 
any time spent with the Canon. 

“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora 
needs something to occupy her mind. She is preying 
on herself, and unless something happens to take her 
out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.” 

He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual 
precision of expression, by taking the startling phrase 
literally. 

“Have you told anyone?” 

“Not yet.” 

“But you must. If you really think that, you must 
tell the Canon so.”’ 

“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she re- 
peated, more strongly and with entire acceptance in 
her voice, “‘I know I must.”’ 

It reminded him of the long past days when one of 
the St. Gwenllian children had been naughty, and the 
task of taking the culprit before the Canon had in- 
variably, and as a matter of course, devolved upon 
Lucilla. 


(vi) 


“FLORA is treading the thorny way that saints have 
trodden. If your own spirituality, which is in its in- 


DAVID AND FLORA 255 


fancy—in its cradle, I may say—does not enable you 
to understand that via dolorosa, at least refrain from 
trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I 
beg.” 

Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested command- 
ing, than begging, and his large eyes seemed to flash 
with indignation as they looked, from beneath cor- 
rugated brows, at Lucilla. 

She was rather paler than her usually colourless 
wont. 

“T am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very 
common form of hysteria, father, and I thoroughly 
distrust any inspiration of hers in her present state 
of health.” 

“She has told me herself that she is in her usual 
health, and that she positively objects to the idea 
of seeing a medical man. I see no reason for disbe- 
lieving her own statement.” 

eyVell) I do.”’ 

“Lucilla, you forget yourself.”’ 

Lucilla and the Canon looked at one another, each 
seeming momentarily to despair of the other. 

At last Lucilla said: 

“A little time ago, you thought she was ill, too.” 

“Mind and body react upon one another, no doubt, 
and our little Flora is highly strung. I do not recog- 
nize it as being in any way incumbent upon me to ex- 
plain to you my treatment of any soul in my charge, 
Lucilla, but I may say that I have now come to the 
conclusion that Flora’s malady was of the soul. With 
that, you must rest content.” 

Lucilla did not rest content at all. 


‘256 THE OPTIMIST 


A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable had 
long been: part of Miss Morchard’s life, but in the 
weeks that followed she.came nearer to the futility 
of the spoken protest than ever before. 

From seemingly eternal weeping, however, Flora 
presently passed to a tense exaltation of spirit that 
found its culmination in long hours spent upon her 
knees. 

Lucilla made only one appeal to her. 

“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I 
can’t help knowing that you’ve been very unhappy.” 

“T’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At 
least, not like I was before. You know I’ve put my- 
self absolutely under father’s direction, Lucilla? How 
wonderful he is!”’ 

“He has made you happier?” 

“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find 
peace, at last.” 

“Tf you mean Church, I should have thought you’d 
known about it ever since you were born, very nearly.” 

If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her 
sister's tone was perceptible to Flora, she showed no 
resentment at it. 

She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla. 

“T wish I could make you understand. But some 
things are too sacred to be described, even if one could. 
The only thing I can say is that I was unhappy, I felt 
I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And 
I was full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t 
tell you what it was, Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, 
and I can’t undo it, now, but at least I can expiate it, 
and all my other failings.” ' 


DAVID AND FLORA 257 


“Expiation?”’ Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiasti- 
cally. “But if you can’t undo whatever it was you did 
—and really, Flossie, I can’t believe it was anything 
so very desperate—will it be a good plan to go on being 
miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no 
purpose?” 

““*The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” Flora 
replied gently. 

Lucilla was left to apply the truth of the adage to 
her own condition of mind. 

She was very unhappy about her sister. 

Nevertheless, Flora had ceased to weep, and although 
she ate less than ever and rose early for the purpose of 
going to church, she looked rather less ill. Only the 
strained look in her eyes remained, ever increasing, to 
justify Lucilla’s feeling of sick dismay. 

That it was entirely unshared by Canon Morchard, 
she knew already, but she was not altogether prepared 
for the announcement that he presently made. 

“T am very happy about dear Flora—peculiarly 
and wonderfully so. What think you, Lucilla, of this? 
Flora is turning her thoughts towards the Sisterhood 
at St. Marychurch.”’ 

It was never Miss Morchard’s way to respond over- 
emphatically to an invitation from her father to state. 
her thoughts freely, experience having long since taught 
her what a tangled web we weave when first we prac- 
tice speaking the truth inopportunely. 

“Has she only just started the idea?” 

“Nay, she tells me—and I can readily believe it— 
that the grace of God, according to its mysterious 
wont, has been working within her for a long while 


258 THE OPTIMIST 


now. There has been a period of darkness for Flora, 
undoubtedly, but she is emerging more and more into 
the light—that light that shineth into the Perfect Day!” 

The Canon seemed rather inclined to forget himself 
in profound musings. 

“It implies losing her,” said Lucilla. 

“Humanly speaking, yes, and it is hard to eradicate 
the human element. But once that is done—and done 
it shall be—what remains is altogether joyful. I shall 
see her go, if go she does, with feelings far other than 
those with which I saw our poor Valeria leave home!’ 

Lucilla thought so, too, and would emphatically have 
given the preference to Valeria’s method of inaugurat- 
ing an independent career. 

“T cannot be anything but glad that one of mine 
should be dedicated!” the Canon exclaimed, as though 
the exclamation broke from him almost irrepressibly. 

“But does Flora mean to go away at once?” 

“She wishes it greatly, and I should hardly feel 
justified in restraining her. Flora is not a child, and 
her own desire, as she says herself, is to feel that way- 
ward, wayless will of hers at safe anchorage at last. 
Dear child, her one regret is for me.” 

Tears stood in the Canon’s eyes. 

“The grief of last winter greatly developed Flora, 
I believe. There has been a tendency to dreaminess, 
to a too great absorption in her music, that I confess 
has made me anxious in the past. But she speaks most 
rightly and nobly of her certainty that a call has come 
to her, and if so, it is indeed a vocation that must 
not be gainsayed. She is all ardour and anxiety to 
begin, and if all is well, she and I go to St. Marychurch 


DAVID AND FLORA 259 


to view the establishment there next week, and enter 
into the necessary arrangements.” 

“What sort of life will it mean for her?” 

“One of direct service, dear Lucilla, of shelter from 
the temptations of this world, of close personal union 
with Christ Himself, I trust. All indeed are not called 
to such union, but I believe with all my heart that our 
Flora is amongst the chosen few, and grievous though 
it be to lose her from our sadly diminished home-circle, 
I cannot but rejoice for her, and with her.” 

The Canon’s voice trembled very much as he spoke, 
but his smile was one of single-hearted sincerity. 


“But does she rejoice?” said Lucilla rather faintly. 

“Indeed she does. I confess that Flora’s earnest 
desire for self-immolation, her ardent spirit, have taken 
me by surprise. She is of the stuff of which the 
martyrs were made. No austerity has any terrors for 
her—she is already far advanced upon the way of the 
mystic.” 

Lucilla wrung her hands together. 

“What is it, my dear one?” said her father gently. 

She could not tell him. She felt unable to voice the 
terror and the profound distrust that possessed her at 
the thought of Flora, fanatically eager for discipline 
of her own seeking, finding in religious emotionalism 
an outlet for instincts that she had not dared, so far as 
Lucilla could judge, to call by their right name. 


“One can only let other people go their own way, 
then?” she murmured, more to herself than to the 
Canon. 

“Say, rather, the way appointed for them, dear 
Lucilla. Yours and mine may lie together yet awhile 


260 THE OPTIMIST 


longer, I trust, but I am no longer young, and these 
repeated partings tell upon me. It is a sacrifice for 
you, too, to make, but let us do so cheerfully—aye, 
and right thankfully, too. Our little one has been 
chosen for the Bride of Heaven, as the beautiful old 
devotional phrase has it.”’ 

Lucilla was only too conscious that the beautiful . 
old devotional phrase awoke nothing in herself but 
a shuddering distaste. 

She could not doubt, however, that its effect upon 
Flora was far otherwise. 

Although she saw, as time went by, that no out- 
side influence would have power to shatter the vision 
so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to which he so 
unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her 
a slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after 
inditing a letter of his usual unbridled length and 
meticulous candour, informed her that he had besought 
Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he 
emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home. 

“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest 
of dear fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of our- 
selves, and yet the mere presence of someone who 
does not always form part of our familiar little circle, 
will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender as- 
sociations of the past that are well-nigh beyond bear- 
ing, at such a time as this.”’ 


Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to 
conceal either his personal dislike of the solution to 
Flora’s problem, or his innate conviction of her com- 


DAVID AND FLORA 261 


plete right to any form of self-slaughter that she might 
select. 

They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion 
to say to her in private: 

“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with 
the Mrs. Carey equation, if it ever comes to be neces- 
sary?” 

“T hope it never will.” 

“So doI. But make it your legacy to me, so that if 
ever it has to be thought of again, I may do as seems 
best to me.” 

Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile. 

“Wouldn't you do that anyway?” 

‘Perhaps I should. But I would rather have your 
permission. And after all, you know, Flora—you 
won't be able to pull strings from your Sisterhood.” 

It was the last, almost the only, reference that he 
would permit himself, and both could smile at it 
faintly. 

“Very well, Owen. I don’t want to remember it 
ever again, and I shall only think of Mrs. Carey now 
in one way.” 

She lacked the Canon’s capacity for outward ex- 
pression, even now, and her colour rose as she spoke. 

Only in earnest and uncondemnatory intercession 
would Mrs. Carey find place again in Flora’s thoughts. 

Owen knew it as well as though she had told him 
SO. 

The evening was mild and beautiful, and the Canon 
sat at the open window, leaning back as though greatly 
fatigued, and asked Flora for some music. 

“Shall I sing?’ she asked. 


262 ELE OP Ti eves 


“Are you able to, my dear?” 

“Yes, indeed,” she said earnestly, and Quentillian 
could surmise that she was instinctively eager for the 
form of self-expression most natural to her, as a vent 
for her own mingled emotions. 

Her voice was more beautiful than ever, with a 
depth of feeling new to it. 

Quentillian was indignant with himself when he 
found that this perfectly traditional setting for a 
pathetic situation was unmistakably affecting him. 

The only light round them was that of the summer’s 
evening, and Flora’s voice came with strength and 
sweetness and purity from her scarcely-seen figure at 
the far end of the room, in well-remembered and in- 
trinsically-exquisite melody. She was part of his child- 
hood—she was going away—they would none of them 
ever again see Flora, as they had known her, any 
more. 


Quentillian, in a violent endeavour to react from 
an emotion that he unsparingly qualified as blatant, 
turned his eyes away from the singer. 


He looked at Lucilla, and saw that she sat very still. 
He reflected that for a face so sensitive, and possessed 
of so much latent humour, hers was singularly inex- 
pressive of anything but acceptance. Nevertheless it 
was an acceptance that had its origin, most unmistak- 
ably, in a self-control acquired long since, rather than 
in an absence of any capacity for strong feeling. 

He wondered, not for the first time, what her life 
had taught Lucilla. 

He looked at Canon Morchard. 

The Canon had closed his eyes and his face, on 


DAVID AND FLORA 263 


which the lines were showing heavily at last, was white 
with the grey pallor of age. Nevertheless he, too, 
showed the deep, essential placidity of a conscious ac- 
ceptance, and for the first time Quentillian perceived a 
fundamental resemblance between the Canon and his 
eldest daughter. 

As though aware of the scrutiny fixed upon him, the 
Canon opened his eyes, and smiled as they met Quen- 
tillian’s. 

“That harmony will be lost to us for a time, per- 
haps,” he said softly. “But is it not a foretaste of 
that great Song of Praise that will have no ending, and 
in which all, all, will be able to join together? I 
think so, Owen.” 

He turned his head slightly, his finger-tips joined 
together in the position habitual to him. 

“Flora, my child, my dear daughter, will it be too 
much if I ask for ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ as you have 
so often given it to us on long-ago Sundays when we 
have been all together—all together ?” 

For answer, she struck the opening chords very 
gently. 


“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 
“Lead thou me on 
“The night is dark, and I am far from home 
ipead. thou me on ; 
tall the wea is gone 
“And with the morn those Angel faces smile 
“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” 


Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering. 
Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes, 


264 THE OP TIMTS T 


It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly 
conscious of pathos, who set his teeth in a profound 
and intense resentment at the obvious emotional ap- 
peal that he found himself unable to ignore. 

He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the 
Canon’s composure that he foresaw, when Flora’s last 
note had died away into silence. 

He could not look up. 

“Flora !’’ 

The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle. 

“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, 
now. You must have some rest, before your journey 
tomorrow.” 

She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as 
usual, only letting his hand linger for a moment on 
her head as he repeated as though speaking to him- 
self: 


“And with the morn those Angel faces smile 
“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” 


“Good-night, Owen. Goodbye,” said Flora. 

She left the room, and the Canon raised himself 
with difficulty from his low chair and said: 

“T have some preparations to make for tomorrow. I 
will leave you for a little while.” 

When he had gone, Owen felt the relaxation of his 
own mental tension. 

For the first time, and with a sincerity that left him 
amazed, he found himself making use of the phrase 
that from others had so often aroused rebellion in 
himself ; 


DAVID AND FLORA 265 


“He is wonderful!” 

Lucilla raised her eyes now, and looked full and 
gravely at Quentillian. 

“Yes. I’m glad you see it at last, Owen.” 

“At last?’ he stammered, replying to her voice 
rather than to her words. 

“He is very fond of you. He has always been very 
fond of you, ever since you were a little boy. And 
It has—vexed me—very often, to see that you gave 
him nothing in return, that, because he belongs to an- 
other school, and another generation, you have almost 
despised him, I think.” 

Owen was conscious of colouring deeply in his sud- 
den surprise and humiliation. 


“Although you are so clever, Owen,” she said in 
the same grave, un-ironical tone, “it has seemed as 
though you are not able, at all, to see beyond the sur- 
face. I know that my father’s religious sentiment, 
sentimentality even, his constant outward expression of 
emotional piety, his guileless optimism, have all jarred 
upon you. But you have had no eyes for his pathetic 
courage, his constant striving for what he sees as the 
highest.” 


“Lucilla—in justice to myself—although what you 
say may be true, if I have judged your father it has 
been far more on account of his children—of what I 
have seen of their lives.” 


“You were not called upon to constitute yourself 
the champion of his children. Valeria, even, had no 
claim on your championship. It was not you whom 
she loved, and you, too, tried to make Val what she 
was never meant to be. When Val threw you over, 


266 HER TVid ek 


if my father tried to force upon you what you could 
only see as the conventional beau geste of renunciation, 
it was because he was incapable of believing that you 
could have asked a woman to marry you without lov- 
ing her, body and soul. His forgiveness of Val, 
whether you thought him entitled to forgive or not, 
lay between him and her. And when you speak of our 
lives, Owen, can’t you see that Val and Adrian and I, 
and perhaps in a way even Flora, too, have come to 
what we were meant for? No one can stand between 
another soul, and life, really.” 

He was oddly struck by the echo of words that he 
had himself once used to Flora. 

“You admit that he tried, to stand between you and 
lifestit 

“T do,” she said instantly. “But if he had succeeded, 
the fault would have been ours.”’ 

She suddenly smiled. 

“Tsn’t it true that to face facts means freedom? 
That’s why I’m not an optimist, Owen. I am willing 
to face all the facts you like. But you, I think, in 
judging my father, have only faced half of them.” 

“You find me intolerant!’ he exclaimed, half-iron- 
ically. Never before had such an adjective been pre- 
sented to his strong sense of his own impartiality, his 
detached rationalism. 

“Not exactly. Only, I’m afraid—a little bit of a 
prig.” 

She uttered the strange, unimposing accusation, not 
rudely, not unkindly, but almost mournfully. 

“Christianity has been accused of intolerance very 
often, and with only too much reason, but those out- 


DAVID AND FLORA 267 


side the Churches, who frankly claim to be agnostic, 
often seem to me to be the most intolerant of all, of 
what they look upon as superstition. Why should you 
despise my father for beliefs that have led him to lead 
an honourable life, and that have given him courage 
to bear his many sorrows?” 

“You have said, yourself, that the facing of facts 
means freedom. I can see no freedom, and therefore 
no beauty, in living in illusion.” 

“Not for yourself, perhaps. Illusions could never 
be anything but conscious, for you.” 

“Nor for yourself, Lucilla,’ he retorted swiftly. 

“But how does that entitle us to despise another for 
holding them?” she demanded, quite as swiftly. Never- 
theless Owen detected a lessening of severity, in so far 
as she had coupled them together in her speech. 

“Tonight,” he said gravely, “I admired your father 
with all my heart.” 

pen glad.” 

On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla 
had begun their brief and rather amazing conversation, 
the Canon returned into the room. 


igs 


THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST 
(1) 


QUENTILLIAN’S next and final summons to St. 
Gwenllian came some months after Canon Morchard 
had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned alone. 

Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s 
appearance, although he knew him to be ill. 

“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. 
I have thought that it was so for some time, and they 
tell me now that there is no doubt of it. This poor 
clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set free. 
Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: 
‘All things work together for good, to those that love 
God.’ If you but knew the number of times during 
these last few years that I have cried out within my- 
self ‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away 
and be at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to 
keep my Christmas feast among the blest. They tell 
me that it cannot be long.” 

Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult 
to put into words. 

“T can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even 
that little will have become impossible. See how even 
the crowning mercy of preparedness is vouchsafed to 

268 


THE DEATH) OF AN: OPTIMIST 269 


me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, 
and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will 
be alone indeed, and it is for her sake, Owen, that I 
want you to do a great kindness to a dying man.” 

“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?” 

“You have it, Owen.’ The Canon laid his hand, 
thin now to emaciation, upon Quentillian’s. 

“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot 
be far off. I have outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s 
remaining aunt is old and infirm. It is not fit, even 
were it possible, that she should come here. She will 
receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone—of that 
I am assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to 
spare her needless distress, when the time comes.” 

“T will do everything that I can to help her.” 

“T know it, dear fellow—I know it. Thank you 
from the bottom of my heart. It seems natural to treat 
you as a son.” 

The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quen- 
tillian upon the word. 

“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written 
to him—a long letter. He need not be afraid of me. 

“T have written to my three absent children: To 
Valeria—my blessing for her little sons—I would have 
given much to see them before going—aye, and their 
mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called her! 
I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, 
that was once full of merriment and children’s voices. 

“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose 
the better part. May she indeed be blessed in her 
choice—little Flora!” 

He sank back, looking exhausted. 


2/0 POR DT Mist 


“T will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I 
will do all that I can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian. 

“T know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, 
Owen, I have ceased to concern myself with these 
things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, and if 
Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I 
am well satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, 
I believe. My will is with my solicitors—Lucilla knows 
the address. What there is, goes in equal shares to 
Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her 
portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. 
All else—personal effects, manuscripts, and the rest— 
are Lucilla’s. She has been my right hand. There 
are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends 
and servants—nothing else. I have thought it well to 
make Lucilla sole executrix—she has helped in all my 
business for so long! 

“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and 
done with. In regard to the spiritual, I have had the 
unutterable honour and pleasure of a visit from the 
Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and 
kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for read- 
ing, and I can depend on him utterly for those last 
commendations that are to smooth my way down the 
Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. 
And now you have come!” 

The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and 
serene. 

The grief that had so often shown there seemed to 
have passed away, and Quentillian found it almost 
incredible that he had ever seen the Canon angry, or 
weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits. 


PAE DEATH OR ANY OPTIMIST. 271 


“Ts he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked 
Lucilla. 

“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But 
they say there won’t be any more pain, most likely, 
now. He will just sink, gradually. If you knew how 
very little he is living on, even now, you would be 
surprised.” 

“Are you doing the nursing?” 

“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. 
He thinks that it will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling 
a little. 

In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult 
Lucilla found it to be so spared. 

The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, 
and the Canon quickly became dependent upon her. He 
begged Owen to spend as much time as possible with 
Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the in- 
numerable letters and the enquirers who came to the 
house. 

She was now only with her father for a brief morn- 
ing visit, and the hour in the afternoon when the nurse 
took her exercise out of doors. Very often Quentillian, 
at the Canon’s request, was also with them then. 

“Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, 
such as they are,’ the Canon told him with a smile. 
“We understand one another too well to need to be 
left alone together.” 

Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the 
changes in the Canon almost imperceptible to the on- 
lookers. 

Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came 
home. 


2h THE (OR DENES f 


“My father isn’t really dying, is her’ he asked 
piteously. 

“He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question 
almost of hours.” 

Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, 
propped upon pillows, and they were left alone together. 

“You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to 
have any agitation,” the nurse anxiously pointed out 
to Lucilla, when the interview had lasted a long while. 

“Can it make any real difference?” 

“It may reduce his strength more quickly.” 

“He would say that it was worth it. He has not 
seen this son for a long while.”’ 

Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it 
was possible to do so. 

At last Adrian came downstairs. 

That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with 
tears in his eyes: 

“Adrian has promised me to give up his work for 
that man. Is it not wonderful, dear Owen? All, all 
added unto me. If this pain of mine is to be the price 
of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how 
gladly shall I not pay it!” 

It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard 
him allude to having suffered physical pain. 

“T have not been so much at rest about Adrian since 
he was a little boy,” said the Canon. “He was always 
the most affectionate of them all. And he cried like 
a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and volun- 
tarily passed me his promise to leave that man.” 

Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise 
given by a weak nature, under strong emotional stress, 


Prom OlSAN, OPTIMIST» 273 


was profound, but he gave no sign of it. It no longer 
caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a deeper 
insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not 
share that guileless singleness of vision, and felt no 
envy of it, and yet he paradoxically desired that it 
should remain unimpaired. 

He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise. 

“He told me. He was crying when he came down. 
He can’t believe even yet that father is dying, poor 
Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, to have 
made that promise.” 

“The Canon is so thankful for it.”’ 

“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the 
world. Everything has come to make it easy for him 
to go, Owen.” 

Something in her tone made him say gently: 

“Poor Lucilla!’ 

“Even if the impression is only temporary with 
Adrian, it will be a comfort to him afterwards. He is 
very unhappy now, that there should have been any 
estrangement between them.” 

It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great 
reliance upon Adrian’s stability of purpose, although 
his present reaction had brought such joy and comfort 
to the dying man. 

That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wan- 
dered. He spoke of his children as though all were 
once more of nursery age, and at home together. 

“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can 
keep up with the others. Less noise, my love—a little 
less noise. . . . Valeria’s voice is too often raised, 
too often raised—although I like its merry note, in fit 


274 THE OPRTIMIS) 


and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we 
ready? The sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book. .. . 
I want to see that pretty attempt at the Church fin- 
ished.” 

Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice: 

“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discour- 
aged, but we hope that she may show great feeling for 
art, by and bye. Lucilla’s forte lies in more practical 
directions. She is my housekeeper—my right hand, 
I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sun- 
light through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? 
Come, Adrian, my man—no lagging behind. . * 

Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his 
face and he asked: “Is not one missing? Is David 
heree? 

Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the 
distressed look still lingered. 

“Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there 
not some sadness—some trouble between us? No— 
no—all a dream.” 

His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I 
shall see David tonight.” 

By and by he asked to be told the time. 

It was nine o'clock. 

The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper. 

“T thought it was morning, and that I had them all 
again—little children. Such trustful little hands lying 
in mine . . . and the children have grown up and 
gone away. . .. No... . Lucilla, you are there, 
are you not, my dear love? And Owen—Owen, that 
was like a third son to me. My own sons are there, 
too—David is safe home . . . only a very little way 


Peet He Or VAN Y OPTIMIST "275 


on . . . and Adrian, little Adrian—he promised 
. ah, all things work together for good . ii 

His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan 
face was smiling. 

“He will sleep,’ whispered the nurse, and her words 
were verified almost instantly. 

Owen took Lucilla away. 

There was a strong sense upon him that the sum- 
mons would not be long delayed now. 

Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer 
door into the garden. They walked up and down 
there, Owen watching the red spark waxing and wan- 
ing from his own cigar. The night was extraordi- 
narily still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with 
stars. 

Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their 
minds most, but Quentillian said by and bye: 

“Where shall you go, eventually?” 

“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there— 
father’s sister. I shall have just enough not to be 
dependent upon her, even if I make my home with her.” 

“Will that be congenial?” 

Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh. 

“TI don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? 
This house, of course, goes to the next incumbent. If 
Mr. Clover is appointed—and we very much hope that 
he will be—he would probably buy a good deal of the 
furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly 
drop to pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn't 
possibly afford to set up house for myself, in any case. 
And I must have something to do. Aunt Mary would 
find plenty for me to do.” 


276 THE OPTIMIST 


“T daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm. 

“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occu- 
pation or a profession seriously, but you know, Owen, 
it isn’t really a practical proposition, though one feels 
as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and 
tell me what I’m fit for—except perhaps being some- 
one’s housekeeper.” 

“My dear Lucilla, with your education and the lit- 
erary training your father has given you, surely any- 
one would be glad of your services.”’ 

“Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, 
which I taught myself, isn’t nearly as good or as quick 
as that of any little girl of sixteen who has learnt it 
properly, and can probably use half a dozen different 
makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine— 
filing, indexing, bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. 
I believe all those things are necessary nowadays. I 
don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I should 
ever be very good or very quick.” 

“I’m not suggesting that you should become a City 
clerk at forty shillings a week.” 

“A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why 
anyone should employ a woman with no experience, 
when there are so many experts wanting work. Lan- 
guages might be an asset, but most people know 
French. German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I 
don’t fancy there is any great demand for Latin or 
Greek. Even for teaching, schools want diplomas and 
certificates, besides proficiency in games.” 

“But the higher professions are all open to women 
of education nowadays,” he protested. “You're not 
restricted to the kitchen or the nursery.” 


Piotr MOND OOP CIMTIST 277 


“Do you really think that I could work up, now, 
for a stiff legal or medical examination, and pass it?” 
she demanded with a sort of gentle irony. “You don’t 
realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.” 

He had not realized it, and it silenced him momen- 
tarily. 

“T think my chances went by a long time ago,” said 
Lucilla. “I’ve never told anyone about it, but I think 
I’d like to tell you now, because I don’t want you to 
think of me as a victim.” 

Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation 
of a reason diametrically opposite to the reason for 
which the majority of confidences are bestowed. 

“Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious 
that I should stay at home and look after the house. 
Besides, I liked doing it. My father was—and is— 
the whole world to me. But there was a time, just 
once, when Val grew up, and David had gone away, 
when I wanted to go away, too. Of course I’m talking 
of a good many years ago, and there weren’t so many 
openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to 
go to college. Father could just have managed it, with- 
out being unfair to any of the others.” 

“You told him, then?” 

“Oh, yes; I told him.” 

“Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she 
paused. 

“He promised to consent if I still wished it, after 
thinking it over.” 

“But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?” 

“No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to ex- 
plain. He did ask me what I should gain by it, and 


b] 


278 THE OPTIMIST 


whether it wasn’t just restlessness and seeking a voca- 
tion to which I was not called. You remember hearing 
him say that about Val, too?” 

“liremember. 

“Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. 
Of course I knew he wouldn’t like my going away 
from him, without being told. But it was I who de- 
cided that it was an occasion for making what I’m 
afraid I thought of as a sacrifice.” 

She surprised him by a little laugh. 

“You see, Owen, I think now that I was quite 
wrong.” 

“Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely. 

“Tt was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years 
after that. I suppose I was resenting my own decision, 
and yet trying to buoy myself up all the time by think- 
ing of my own self-abnegation and generosity. It had 
seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time—to 
sacrifice my own life to my widowed father and my 
motherless brothers and sisters. At first, I remember 
thinking that there would be something almost sacred 
about my everyday life at home.” 

“When people begin to think that things are sacred 
to them, it generally means that they’re afraid of facing 
the truth about them.” 

“Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself 
the truth. But in the end I did, when I saw that no 
one was likely to want to marry me, and that my life 
was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it 
be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and 
square—after the first—it all became a great deal 
easier. Besides, there were compensations, really.” 


Pot DEATH ORCAN OPTIMIST, 11279 


He made a sound of interrogation. 

“Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve 
always felt sorry for women who lived in their boxes, 
and had nowhere of their own. And being mistress 
of the house all these years—I’ve liked that, and been 
fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough 
to see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone 
brought up as we were especially, are quite important 
items. You know, women who have a career don’t 
generally get those other things thrown in as well, 
unless they’re exceptionally fortunate.” 

“You set them against independence and your own 
freedom ?” 

“T don’t say that, but they do count,” she said stead- 
ily. “If it comes to a question of relative values, of 
course they take second place. But once I’d admitted 
to myself, quite honestly, that I’d relinquished my 
chance of the best things of all, then I could quite see 
those other things as being intrinsically worth some- 
thing—a very good second best. They’re really only 
unsatisfactory when one tries to think of them as sub- 
stitutes. Taken at their own value—well, I’ve found 
them helpful, you know.” 

There was a silence before she spoke again. 

“Most of all, there was Father.”’ 

“That relationship has been the biggest factor in 
your life, of course.” 

“Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely 
matter-of-fact, said: “I think perhaps I won’t talk 
about that now. But I know just as well as you do 
that in the course of nature, those particular links can 
only be expected to endure for a certain number of 


280 THE OPTIMIST 


years. They’re breaking now, for me, and it means 
that part of my life goes too.” 

He could not contradict her. 

“Ts Adrian any use?” 

“Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must 
keep together, and make a home for one another. He 
wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would be 
glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t 
be fair to take him at his word. Perhaps we may be 
together for a little while—till things have worn off 
a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t he? I 
don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.” 

The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, 
that he would relinquish his work, was evidently not 
a factor that Lucilla took into serious consideration. 
By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it. 

“Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I sup- 
pose?” 

“Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t 
leave the two babies, nor very well bring them with 
het 

“Flora?” 

Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had 
come to remember Flora’s corporeal existence only by 
an effort. He could scarcely feel her to be less sepa- 
rated from the realities of life than one who had died 
in youth, and been long forgotten. 

Lucilla only shook her head. 

“They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, 
Owen, they didn’t shirk their chances. They said Yes 
to Life as they saw it.” 

“Can you be glad of that?” 


Poe A TCO AN: OPTIMIST 251 


“Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think 
of three—unfulfilled—lives to be spent side by side, 
held together by affection if you like, but fundamen- 
tally built on an artificial basis! No, no’—her smile 
held humour, rather than conscious valour, though 
Owen saw it as valiant too—‘I’m glad to have faced 
my facts at last, though it ought to have been done 
long ago, when I made my choice. I’m not optimistic 
now, but I—I’m free.” 

As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a 
dark figure sped across the grass towards them. 
Adrian’s voice reached them, low and urgent: 

“Come!” 


(i1) 


THE CANON lay back against his pillows and it did 
not need the nurse’s gesture to Lucilla to tell them that 
he was dying. His breath came loud and fast and his 
eyes were closed. 

Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside 
and was sobbing, his face hidden in his arms. Quen- 
tillian stood beside Lucilla, who held her father’s hand 
in hers. 

“Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked. 

The nurse shook her head. 

“Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla 
said then. 

“No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor 
and Mr. Clover, but es 

Her face completed the sentence. 

They remained motionless, Adrian’s irregular sobs 





282 THE OPTIMIST 


and the Canon’s heavy breathing alone cutting inter- 
mittently across the silence. 

Quentillian never knew how long it was before 
Canon Morchard opened his eyes and spoke, articu- 
lating with great difficulty. 

“All safe—all happy . . . verily, all things work 
together for good!” 

He smiled, looking straight across at Owen Quen- 
tillian, and suddenly said with great distinctness: 

“Mors janua vite!’ 

Owen could hear the cry still, ringing through the 
room, in the time of dumb struggle that followed. 

It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had 
been Fenwick Morchard’s. 

Just before the first hint of day dawned into the 
room, Lucilla and the nurse laid back on to the pillows 
the form that they had been supporting. 

Adrian was crying and shivering like a child. 

“Take him downstairs and give him something hot 
to drink,” the nurse commanded Owen. ‘“‘There’s a fire 
in the kitchen.” 

Quentillian looked at Lucilla. 

“Please go,” she said. 

He went downstairs with Adrian. 

“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully 
good to me, really,’ sobbed Adrian. “He used to 
make an awful fuss of me when I was a little chap, 
and I wasn’t half grateful enough—beast that I was!” 

“Drink this.” 

iivcanr te: 

“Of course you can. Try and be a man, Adrian, 
for your sister’s sake.”’ 


Pee DEATH .OFCAN OPTIMIST), (283 


“It’s worse for me than for any of them,” said 
Adrian ingenuously, “because I’ve got things to be 
remorseful about, and they haven’t. And now it’s too 
late!” 

“You were here in time,” said Quentillian, abomi- 
nably conscious, and resentful, of his own triteness. 

“And I promised him I’d chuck my job. I think 
it comforted him.” 

“I’m sure it did.” 

“Tt was a sacrifice, in a way, to throw the whole 
thing up, when I was doing well and keen on it, and 
all that sort of thing; but I’m thankful now that I 
did it. Perhaps it made up to—him—for my having 
been such a hound, often and often.” 

It was oddly evident that Adrian was torn between 
genuine grief and shock and a latent desire to make 
the most of his own former depravity. 

“T daresay you're thinking that having been through 
the war and everything, I ought to be used to the sight 
of death,” he said presently; “but it’s quite different 
when it’s like this. One got sort of hardened there, 
and everybody was running the same risk—oneself in- 
cluded. But my father—why, it seems like the end 
of everything, Owen. I must say, I think I’m a bit 
young to have my home broken up like this, don’t 
your” 

“Very young,” repeated Quentillian automatically, 
and yet not altogether without significance. 

“T don’t know what will happen, but of course Lu- 
cilla and I have to leave St. Gwenllian. It’s hard on 
her, too. I thought we ought to keep together, you 
know, for a bit. It seems more natural. I shall have 


284 DHE OR TEM Isa 


to look for a fresh job, and I don’t know what Hale 
will say to my chucking him.” 

Adrian was silent, obviously uneasy, and it was evi. 
dent enough that it was the strong revulsion from that 
anxiety which prompted his next sudden outburst. 

“T’m so awfully thankful that I had the strength to 
make that promise about leaving Hale. It'll always 
be a comfort to me to feel that I made a sacrifice for 
the dear old man, and that he—went—the happier for 
it. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about Hale and 
Hale’s crowd. Father had the old-fashioned ideas of 
his generation, you know, and of course all progress 
seemed a sort of vandalism to him. I daresay if he’d 
ever met Hale he’d have had his eyes opened a bit, 
and seen things quite differently. Hale was always 
jolly decent about him, too—he’d read some of his 
stuff, and had quite a sort of admiration for it, in a 
way. Said it was reactionary, and all that, but per- 
fectly sound in its own way, you know—scholarly, and 
all that kind of muck.” 

“Have you written to Hale?” 

“No. Of course, in-a way it’s an awfully awkward 
situation for me, having to tell him why I’m not com- 
ing back to him, and so on. I thought I’d pop up 
and see him as soon as it could be managed. Of course 
there are arrangements to be made fi 

The boy broke off, in a fresh access of bewilderment 
and grief. 

“I simply can’t realize he’s gone, Owen. I say—you 
do think he was happy, don’t you?” 

ax Boon 

“That promise of mine meant a lot to him. I’m so 





THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST 285 


thankful that I’ve got that to remember. You might 
say, in a way, considering how much he always thought 
of us, that some of his children had rather let him 
down, in a way. I mean, Lucilla and I were the only 
two there, out of the five of us. Of course, David, 
poor chap, had gone already, and Val and Flossie 
couldn’t very well help themselves—and yet there it 
was! Do you suppose that when he said—that—about 
‘all safe, all happy’-—he was thinking of us?” 
pxesel-do.”’ 

“It’s a comfort to know his mind was at rest. He 
wouldn’t have said that if I hadn’t made that promise, 
you know,” said Adrian. 

“Look here, Adrian, hadn’t you better try and get 
some sleep? There'll be things to be done, later, you 
know, and you and I—if you'll let me help—must try 
and take some of it off Lucilla’s hands.” 

All the child in Adrian responded to the transparent 
lure. 

He drew himself up. 

“Thanks awfully, Owen. I shall be only too glad of 
your help. There'll be a good deal for me to see to, 
of course, so perhaps I’d better lie down for an hour 
or two while I can. What about Lucilla?” 

“Would you like to come and find her?” 

The boy shuddered violently. 

“Not in there—I couldn’t,” he said piteously. 

They went upstairs together. 

As they passed the door of the Canon’s room, it was 
cautiously opened and the nurse came outside and spoke 
to Adrian. 

“The doctor should be here presently. I want him 


286 DEE OPTI MiSs, 


to see Miss Morchard. She turned faint a little while 
ago, and I’ve got her into her room, but I’m afraid 
she’s in for a breakdown. I’ve seen them like this 
before, after a long strain, you know.” 

The woman’s tone was professionally matter of fact. 

‘Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and 
seeming rather resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust 
upon him. 

“T shouldn’t, if I were you. It'll only upset her. 
She’s broken down a bit—hysterical. It'll relieve her, 
in the end. I sha’n’t leave her now, till the doctor 
comes.” 

Lucilla hysterical! 

Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched 
the nurse depart to what she evidently looked upon as 
a fresh case. 

“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian 
miserably. 

“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. ‘Shall I draft 
out some telegrams for you, and let you see them be- 
fore they go? It’s no use sending them to the pcst- 
office before eight.” 

“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?” 

“Not just now, thanks.” 

“Well, I'll relieve you at seven. Send someone to 
call me, will your?—though I don’t suppose I shall 
sleep.” 

The boy trailed into his room; disconsolate and 
frightened-looking. 

Owen Quentillian, searching for writing materials, 
found them on the table in the Canon’s study, a table 
scrupulous in its orderliness, each stack of papers dock- 


THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST 287 


eted, each article laid with symmetrical precision in its 
own place. 

Owen would not sit there, where only the Canon 
had sat, under the crucifix mounted on the green velvet 
plaque. He went instead to another, smaller table, in 
the embrasure of a window, and sat there writing until 
the morning light streamed in upon him. 

Then he laid down the pen, with a sense of the fu- 
tility of activities that sought to cheat reflection, and 
let his mind dwell upon that which subconsciously 
obsessed it. 

Canon Morchard had died as he had lived—an op- 
timist. An invincible faith in the ultimate rightness of 
all things had been his to the end, and perhaps most 
of all at the end. 

Quentillian envisaged the Canon’s causes of thank- 
fulness. 

He had seen his children as “safe” and “happy.” 
Was it only because he had wanted so to see them? 

David, who was dead, had been mourned for, but 
the Canon had been spared the deepest bitterness of 
separation. He had known nothing of the gulf widen- 
ing between his own soul and that of his eldest 
STC $1): « 

A fool’s paradise? 

He had seen Lucilla as safe and happy. 

And yet Lucilla’s life was over, unlived. As she 
herself had said, her chances had gone by. Torquay 
remained. It was not very difficult to imagine her 
days there. An old lady—the placid kindness accorded 
by the aged to the middle-ageing—the outside interests 
of a little music, a few books, a flower-garden—the 


288 RHE OR DUN issih 


pathetic, vicarious planning for scarcely seen nephews 
and nieces—the quick, solitary walks, cut short by the 
fear of being missed, and then, as years went on, more 
solitude, and again more solitude. 

Lucilla had said: “I’m not an optimist now—but [m 
free,’ 

From the bottom of his heart Owen recalled with 
thankfulness the fact of Lucilla’s freed spirit. 

It was the best that life would ever hold for her now. 

His thoughts turned to Flora. 

Quentillian could not envisage her life: eternally se- 
cluded, eternally withdrawn. She was lost to them, as 
they were lost to her. 

Subconsciously, he was aware of associations con- 
nected with Flora’s vocation upon which he preferred 
not to dwell. He knew, dimly, intuitively, that Lu- 
cilla’s merciless clarity of outlook had seen Flora less 
as a voluntary sacrifice than as the self-deluded victim 
of fanaticism. 

But no doubts had crossed the Canon’s mind on 
Flora’s behalf. He had known no distrust of her crav- 
ing for self-immolation, no dread of reaction coming 
too late. 

He had thanked God for the dedication of Flora. 

The one of his children for whom he had grieved 
perhaps longest was Valeria. And it was on Valeria 
that Owen’s thoughts dwelt most gladly. She had pur- 
chased reality for herself, and although the price might 
include his own temporary discomfiture, Quentillian re- 
joiced in it candidly. Nevertheless, it was Val’s error, 
and not Val’s achievement, that her father had seen. 
His hope for her had been the one of ultimate repara- 


THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST 289 


tion implied in his own favourite words—*All things 
work together for good.” 

And the Canon had quoted those words yet again, 
when Adrian, his favourite child, had come back to 
him. His deepest thankfulness had been for the emo- 
tional, unstable promise volunteered by Adrian’s im- 
pulsive youth. 

Quentillian could see no reliance to be placed upon 
that promise to which the Canon, with such ardent 
gratitude and joy, had trusted. Adrian would drift, 
the type that does little harm, if less good. Strength 
of intellect, as of character, had been denied him. No 
interest would hold him long, no aim seem to him to be 
worth sustained effort. 

And yet the Canon had felt Adrian, too—perhaps 
most of all Adrian, in the flush of reconciliation after 
their estrangement—to be “safe” and “happy.” 

Then optimism was merely a veil, drawn across the 
nakedness of Truth? 

From the depths of a profound and ingrained pessi- 
mism, Quentillian sought to view the question dispas- 
sionately, and felt himself fundamentally unable to 
do so. 

Hard facts and—at best—resignation, or baseless 
hopes and undaunted courage, such as had been Canon 
Morchard’s? 

The death of the Canon, bereft of all and yet believ- 
ing himself to possess all, had epitomized his life. 

Overhead, sounds and stirrings had begun, and 
Quentillian softly let himself out of the house and 
stepped out into the fresh chill of the morning air. 
His eyelids were stiff and aching from his vigil, and 


290 THE OPTIMIST 


sudden, most unwonted tears filled them. He glanced 
at the windows of the old house. A light still burned 
in Lucilla’s, as though the nurse had been able to spare 
no thought from her ministrations. 

Lucilla, the finest and bravest of the Canon’s chil- 
dren, had been broken on the wheel. 

In the passionless sorrow that possessed him, Quen- 
tillian grasped at the strand of consolation that he knew 
to exist somewhere. It had been found for him once 
before, by Canon Morchard. 

He found it again, remembering. 

Mors janua vite. 

The Canon had proclaimed it, as a joyful certainty. 
Approached far otherwise, Owen could yet proclaim 
it, too, as the supreme and ultimate Fact to be faced, 
of which the true realization would strike forever the 
balance between optimism and pessimism. 

He turned towards the entrance again, and as he did 
so the blinds of Canon Morchard’s room were drawn 
down, by a careful, unseen hand. 


V 


OWEN AND LUCILLA 
(i) 


It was nearly a year later that Owen Quentillian 
went to Torquay to see Lucilla Morchard, and asked 
her to marry him. 

Nothing in the occasional letters that they had ex- 
changed could have been regarded as in any way indi- 
cative of such a dénouement, and for once Owen saw 
Lucilla thoroughly disconcerted. 

“But why?” she demanded, in a tone at once wist- 
ful and indignant. 

Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes had lost 
neither humour nor sanity of outlook. 

“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear 
Lucilla,’ he answered humbly. “But because of the 
awful loneliness at Stear, and my own weakness which 
makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your 
sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are 
the only person I know who can face facts, and then 
be happy. It’s the most wonderful combination in 
Liter: 

“You have faced facts, yourself.” 

“And it has only brought me bitterness.” 

She reflected for a moment and then said: 

. 291 


292 THE COPTIMIsS 


“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in 
marriage with me, Owen.” 

Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense. 

“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will 
want some warning. She is old, and fussy, and there’s 
only one maid.” 

They had met out of doors. 

“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said 
stiffly, offended by the irrelevance. 

“Tt won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla as- 
sured him kindly. ‘Aunt Mary likes to see people, very 
much, it’s a new interest for her. Only it worries her 
if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no cake for 
tea. Things like that, you know.” 

He hardly did know, so different was his own world, 
and he could scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile 
mistress of St. Gwenllian, could know. 

“You've remembered, of course,’’ she said reflective- 
ly, ‘that I’m several years older than you are?” 

“What can that matter?” 

“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk 
that it entails and are prepared to take it. But, of 
course, that isn’t the only risk, Owen.” 

“T suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, 
Lucilla?” 

They both broke into laughter. 

“Here we are,”’ said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate 
in a row of other little gates. “T’ll walk with you to 
the station afterwards.” 

She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and 
looked at him. 

“Tt’s only that we are—or we ought to be—past the 


OWEN AND LUCILLA 293 


stage of following a generous impulse and hoping for 
the best. I—I don’t want either of us to bite off more 
than we can chew.” 

On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard 
opened the front door of “Balmoral” with a latch- 
key, allowing no time for a reply. 

She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while 
she went into a room opening out of it, that was as 
obviously the drawing-room as the room on the other 
side was the dining-room. 

Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded 
with foolish brackets and bad water-colours, at the 
painted deal staircase and balusters, at the window on 
the landing that looked out on to little back gardens, 
all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a mo- 
mentary vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified 
rooms at St. Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the 
tennis court. 

Lucilla had been fond of gardening. 

From somewhere in the basement came the screech- 
ing note of a parrot. 

Then Lucilla summoned him. 

The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected 
it to be, and so was the aunt. 

She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that 
she knew some of the residents, but none of the visi- 
tors, unless there was “a link,’’ and she asked Owen if 
he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar. 

He had not. 

“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful 
person,’ said the old lady with enthusiasm, and she 
talked about foreign missions for some time, though 


294 THE OPTIMIST 


~ even this failed to enlighten the uninterested Quen- 
tillian on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar. 

Lucilla did not talk very much—but, then, she never 
had talked very much. 

The old aunt referred to her several times, and once 
said to Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. 
She reads a great deal. I like having an opinion to 
go by, and she chooses my books for me so much better 
than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many 
people just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but 
Lucilla and I like to know something about the author 
as well.” 

She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride. 

Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of 
manuscript concerning Leonidas of Alexandria, at the 
laborious compilation for which Lucilla had worked 
for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of 
which Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, 
is our literary critic.” 

A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old 
lady poured it out, and was very meticulous in inquir- 
ing into Quentillian’s precise tastes as to milk and 
sugar. 

As soon as he could, he made his farewell. 

“IT hope you'll come again, now you’ve found the way 
here,” said Lucilla’s aunt, kindly. 

Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when 
he left “Balmoral.” 

They walked in silence for a little way and then 
Owen said pleadingly: 

“You'll let me take you away from that, won’t you, 
Lucilla? It’s an impossible life for you.” 


OWEN AND LUCILLA 205 


“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just 
what I said before—you want to follow a generous 
impulse without counting the cost. My life has really 
nothing to do with the question.” 

He was frankly confounded. 

“T thought it might be an argument in my favour,” 
he said resentfully. 

“There’s only one thing that could really count in 
that way—well, two things, to be accurate. Your need 
of me, Owen.”’ 

“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, 
and yet the company of most of the people I know 
rather annoys me. And there’s another thing. I’m 
frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and—and 
you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve 
thought lately that if you were there—the realest per- 
son I know—lI shouldn’t be frightened, at Stear. I’m 
giving you facts, Lucilla—not romance. We've both 
missed that.” 

“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?” 

aINO. 

Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to 
his bald negative. 

“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What 
about mine?” 

“The worst one is that you should find me an in- 
tolerable egotist,” he said rather unsteadily. 

“We can discount that.” 

She spoke curtly, and he made no rejoinder, uncer- 
tain of her meaning. 

“What was the other argument that might count in 
my favour, Lucilla? One was my need of you. I 


296 THE:OPRTIMISE 


think I’ve shown you that. But you said ‘two things, 
to be accurate.’ Tell me what the other was.” 

“Ts,” she corrected, with a sound that was very 
nearly a laugh, and that caused him to look at her. 

She faced his gaze with all her own steadiness, but 
for the first time he saw Lucilla’s mild imperviousness, 
her implacable matter-of-factness, as a shield for some- 
thing infinitely fragile and sensitive. 

Her voice, always quiet, was quieter than ever when 
she spoke. 

“Tt’s fair to tell you, I think. I’ve loved you for a 
long time now. So you see my risks would be greater 
than yours, Owen. That’s why I was afraid of im- 
pulse. But you see I’ve told you this—which was 
rather difficult to say—because it seems to me that our 
one chance lies in absolute honesty. We've faced the 
fact together that you’re—just lonely, and that’s why 
you want me—but—we’ve got to face the other fact 
too—both of us—I mean that, for me—you do stand 
for romance, Owen.” 

Her voice had not altered, but the effort with which 
she had spoken had brought tears, that Owen had 
never seen there before, to Lucilla’s eyes. 

Nevertheless she smiled at him valiantly. 

For the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, 
Quentillian found himself unable to analyse his feel- 
ings or to translate them into tersely sententious pe- 
riods. 

In the long silence that fell between them, there be- 
gan a process by which he slowly reversed certain judg- 
ments, and eliminated certain axioms, which hitherto 
had stood to him for wisdom. 


OWEN AND LUCILLA 297 


But it was with scarcely any knowledge of this, that 
Owen Quentillian, reduced at last to making an appeal, 
asked Lucilla Morchard once more: 

“Will you marry me? The risks are all yours—will 
you take them?” 

With her most characteristic gesture, she bent her 
head in assent, neither impulsive nor emotional, but 
fully accepting responsibility, and said seriously and 
gently : 

“Yes, Owen, I will.” 

















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